


Had To Be You

by lettersbyelise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, Anal Sex, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Enemies to Friends, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Gay Draco Malfoy, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, London, M/M, Mentions of Harry and Draco in other relationships, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor other pairings, Music, OCs - Freeform, POV Harry Potter, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Switching, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, young adulthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13860339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise
Summary: Draco Malfoy is possibly the last person Harry expects to find at the wheel of a Muggle car, on a beautiful summer day on the road to London.This is the story of how Harry runs into Draco once, twice, three times, and how he doesn’t leave their next meeting to chance.Inspired byWhen Harry Met Sally





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching _When Harry Met Sally_ for the hundredth time, because let's face it, it's the best classic romcom in history. And I kept thinking, "this would totally be something Harry/Draco would say/do"... and so this fic was born.  
>  All characters and references to contents of the books belong to J K Rowling. I'm just having fun for free.
> 
> Chapter captions are lyrics from songs mentioned throughout this fic.
> 
> Thank you Kit for the first read-through! And a million _mercis_ to the amazing [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/profile) for the thorough beta, and for being such a wonderful friend all around. <33

**_His message was brutal but the delivery was kind  
_ Amy Winehouse, ** _**You sent me flying** _

 

**June 1999**

The sun is warm on Harry’s back as he kisses Ginny just outside the gates of Hogwarts. It’s a beautiful, early summer day. Fresh green leaves rustle overhead, the lake glimmers with tiny lights, and the road to London stretches ahead of them; first through Hogsmeade, then Inverness, Edinburgh, Manchester, Oxford.

Today is just the perfect end to his days as a Hogwarts student, the perfect beginning of the rest of his life. He starts Auror training at the Ministry in September, he has a beautiful girlfriend in his arms, and in a week’s time, he will be travelling across Europe with her and his two best friends, staying at nice hotels, visiting interesting places, and generally just enjoying life as almost adults.

Just — no camping, _never_ camping. They’re all bloody done with camping.

He sighs contentedly against Ginny’s lips, relishing the prospect of his life being easy and, hopefully, predictable. Merlin, has life ever felt predictable before?

“I love you,” he says, more as a goodbye than an actual declaration of feelings.

The words had tumbled freely from his mouth last year, in the wake of the most terrible night of his life. He had clung to Ginny like a lifeboat then, one of the few foundations of his old life still standing among the ruins of the castle. Since then, they had exchanged them so frequently they almost lost their meaning. It was just this — this easy, comforting force of habit.

It’s like a dream, Harry thinks. A dream that’s warm and fuzzy around the edges. Sometimes lately, or maybe since the battle, Harry feels like he’s sleepwalking through his life. He feels a little numb.

But in a good way.

Maybe. Whatever.

At least the numbness keeps the nightmares at bay.

He kisses Ginny again. He loves her, he really does. Why wouldn’t he?

“I’m going to miss you,” he adds for good measure.

“You’ll see me again in a week,” she chuckles, wrinkling her freckled nose, as an approaching car rumbles in the distance. “Don’t be sappy. Also, I think your ride is here.”

Earlier, when he left the Eighth Year common room, Ron waved him goodbye distractedly, barely looking up from the rather impassioned game of chess he was playing against Terry Boot; Neville and Luna were walking around the grounds, hand in hand, and would probably be until sunset; Hermione was in the library, reading through as many Muggle-Wizarding Relations books she could get her hands on and taking a staggering amount of notes, swotting for her future job at the Ministry.

And Harry —  Harry needs to be in London two days before the rest of his year, who are still enjoying the precious few days of leisure at Hogwarts between the end of classes and the departure of the Hogwarts Express. He is going back to London to meet with his solicitor and finally sort the papers that will officially donate Grimmauld Place to the Fund for Second Wizarding War Victims. Despite the charitable gesture, he still feels conflicted about giving away the last of Sirius’ possessions. As much as his godfather disliked that house, it’s the only tangible thing that remains of him for Harry. But well — he knows it needs to be done, and he has no desire to keep that creepy old house where, just like Sirius, he never felt at home to say the least.

A couple of weeks before leaving Hogwarts, he asked around and found out that Blaise Zabini could drive him back to London a few days ahead of the Hogwarts Express.

Harry barely knew him. He was a Slytherin from his year, possibly a friend of Draco Malfoy’s — not that he kept track of every member of Malfoy’s clique from back then. Zabini had stayed out of the war, having left England for France with his mother the summer before seventh year. He had come back to Hogwarts afterwards and had completed his eighth year along with Harry and the few classmates from their year who wanted to take their NEWTs. Many others had chosen not to finish their studies at Hogwarts, either because they had found jobs in England or abroad, or simply wanted to stay away from the place. Malfoy was among those who had not come back, not that Harry knew what he had been up to since the awful summer of the trials. Zabini, though — Zabini seemed like a decent enough bloke for a Slytherin.

So when he had told Harry that he owned a car, knew how to drive it and could drive to London with him at the end of June, Harry had taken the opportunity without worrying too much about the company.

Said car is now driving down the slightly sloped road crossing the path to the Hogwarts gates. It stops right next to Harry and Ginny just as Harry is leaning in for another kiss.

He freezes midway to her lips when he hears someone call his name, the clipped, posh drawl awfully familiar.

“Hello, Potter. Get in.”

Harry’s head snaps to the car. The driver’s window is rolled down, and staring at him from within the black Volkswagen Golf is no other than him. All pointy face, white-blond hair falling in pale grey eyes, and a smirk Harry thought he'd forgotten.

The unmistakable Draco Malfoy.

Harry gapes at him for a few seconds. He doesn’t know what shocks him more: finding someone else than the expected Blaise Zabini in the driver’s seat, or seeing Malfoy again — possibly the last person he would expect to see today, at the wheel of a Muggle car, on the road to London.

Before he has a chance to say anything, Malfoy provides him with the answer to at least one of the million questions running through his head.

“Blaise was called back to Paris for a family emergency. Nothing bad, but his mum insisted he leave this morning. McGonagall set up an international Portkey for him.”

“And… you’re driving his car,” Harry says, a question that comes out in the flat tone of a statement.

“No, Potter, I’ve got House-elves pedaling under the bonnet.” Malfoy rolls his eyes, a look both weirdly, comfortingly familiar and terribly annoying all at once. _“Of course_ I’m driving his car. He needs it when he comes back to London, and I happened to be on an assignment not too far from here. He asked me for a favour.”

He leans a shirt-clad forearm out the window, and fixes him with a steely gaze. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Just go, Harry,” Ginny nudges him, and he starts. For a moment, he forgot she was still standing here.

“Okay,” he says, ignoring the voice in his head that screams he should not even consider getting in a car with Draco Malfoy. What choice does he have, really? He needs to be in London tomorrow, and there is no way McGonagall will bend the rule of students leaving via Portkeys unless it’s a family emergency — which she very well knows isn’t the case for Harry. After all, McGonagall is one of the few people in the wizarding world who are not impressed by Harry’s Chosen One aura.

And ironically enough, Malfoy might be one of them as well.

So he walks to the back of the car and lifts his school trunk into the boot with a Leviosa.

Ginny joins him there once he’s done and kisses him again, standing very close to him.

“I’m going to miss you,” she smiles against his lips.

“I thought I was seeing you again in a week,” he grins back.

“Yeah, but still.”

“I’m going to miss you more.” Another kiss, and he playfully rolls his hips against hers. She swats him away, laughing.

The blast of the horn makes them both jump back.

“Sorry!” he hears from the driver’s seat, Malfoy lifting a hand in a gesture that looks more dismissive than apologetic.

With one last wave to Ginny, Harry gets in the passenger’s seat, puts his seatbelt on, and lets Malfoy drive them away from Hogwarts.

 

****

 

“So,” Harry tries reluctantly after they’ve been driving in silence for almost an hour and road signs are beginning to indicate they’re close to Inverness. “What have you been up to this year?”

He can only see Malfoy’s profile, and doesn’t miss the surprised lift of his eyebrows.

“Really, Potter? Small talk?”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Harry fights against the note of annoyance that creeps into his voice. It’s like a Pavlovian response to being around Draco Malfoy. “It’s a ten-hour drive to London. Might as well pass the time.”

“We could just keep quiet, but I’m guessing it’s near impossible for you.”

“I need something to keep me awake. Or keep you awake, since you’re the one driving. How do you even know how to drive, by the way?”

Malfoy continues to fix the road ahead, clearly debating whether he should engage with Harry or not. In the end though, he seems to decide fighting him off is a losing battle, and he answers.

“I passed my driver’s licence last year.”

“Why would you even need a driver’s licence?”

The question earns him another eye roll, not that Harry knows why that should be the case.

“How dim are you, Potter? You were at the trial. You know what my sentence was.”

And Harry suddenly remembers, and the implications roll out in his brain like a ten-foot long parchment unfolding.

“Five years without a wand,” he breathes.

“Precisely. That means five years without magic, basically. Five years with no magical means of transportation. I needed a way to get away from the Manor whenever I wanted to, and a way to get around independently. Wiltshire is in the middle of fucking nowhere if you can’t Apparate, Floo or Portkey.”

He falls quiet, lost in thought. Harry holds his breath. He doesn’t want to talk about Malfoy’s sentence. About the fact that after the trial, Harry delivered the hawthorn and unicorn hair wand that had defeated Voldemort to the Aurors. Malfoy’s wand, now legendary among wizarding kind, is still kept in custody at the DMLE until the end of his sentence.

Malfoy laughs a little, and the sound brings Harry back to the moment. “Getting my licence wasn’t the most difficult, honestly,” he says. “Passing for a Muggle was much harder. Every driving lesson I had, I was so nervous about breaking the Statute of Secrecy I could barely speak. My instructor probably thought I had a huge crush on her and was too shy to say.”

And now that Harry lets himself observe Malfoy, he sees all the changes that occurred since he last saw him.

He’s dressed in smart grey Muggle trousers and a white shirt, and he looks like he’s filled out and definitely moved out of boyhood. He’s a far cry from the gaunt, withdrawn teenager he had been in his last year at Hogwarts. The man is actually doing very well with a car. His hands are still pale and elegantly fine-boned, strong and sure on the wheel, the left one moving occasionally to the gear stick, changing gears, then moving back to the wheel. His driving is seamless, like he’s been doing this all his life, and Harry surprises himself when he asks a question he didn’t know he wanted to ask.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have a crush on her.”

Malfoy snorts, almost amused. Harry feels oddly pleased that he managed to loosen him up a bit.

“No. She... wasn’t my type.”

“Muggle?”

“Female.”

At that, Harry nearly chokes on his own spit. He tries to clear his throat for what feels like several minutes, Malfoy’s eyebrows increasingly lifting up his forehead as Harry’s coughing fit continues, until they’ve almost disappeared under his white-blonde fringe.

“All right there, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaks, having managed to stop coughing. His face is probably beet-red though, and he hates that Malfoy was able to pull the rug underneath him like that.

“Merlin,” Malfoy mutters. “I always knew you were a git, but homophobic, too?”

“Look who’s talking,” Harry snorts, outraged. “And I’m not homophobic!”

“Sure you’re not. That’s why you _didn’t_ almost choke when I came out to you a minute ago.”

“I was surprised, that’s all,” Harry says, and he doesn’t want it to sound like an apology, even though he knows it does. “I didn’t know that — about you, I mean.”

“Well, the Hogwarts uniforms did not come with a rainbow lining option. Not much you know about me, Potter, I'm afraid,” Malfoys says, but there’s no animosity in his tone, which makes Harry even more curious. He wants to ask more about — Merlin knows what he would ask Malfoy. So he decides to come back to his original topic.

“So you got your licence, and then what?”

“I think that’s quite enough about me,” Malfoy’s grey eyes flick to Harry’s, then back to the road. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re up to? Surely the Great Harry Potter would have a very exciting life lined up after Hogwarts?”

“Not really,” Harry hears himself say, and he doesn’t even know what makes him sounds so deflated. “First, summer holidays with Ginny and Ron and Hermione, then I’m starting training as an Auror with Ron, and Ginny and I are moving in together.”

“Please don’t sound so bloody enthusiastic about it. You’ll make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves.” It seems that Malfoy is trying to inject as much sarcasm as he can into the words.

“It is exciting!” Harry sounds defensive even to his own ears.

“I never imagined you as one to have the next five years planned out, that’s all,” Malfoy says.

“Did you imagine me much?” Harry scoffs, but stops in his tracks when a light flush blooms on Malfoy’s cheeks. He clears his throat, looks away. “It’s nice to know what the near future looks like, I guess. Can’t say I’ve had that luxury in the last few years.”

He doesn’t know where this bout of honesty comes from, but it seems that Malfoy doesn’t want to antagonise him on this anymore.

“No, you probably haven’t,” he says almost to himself.

Harry studies him for a moment, under the pretense of looking at the mountains out of their right-side window. There’s a determined set to his pointy face that Harry swears wasn’t there before the war. This Draco Malfoy looks like he’s been through the worst he could deal with, and like nothing can scare him anymore. Harry feels that way, sometimes, too. Now he finds he wants to keep talking to Malfoy — something his fifteen-year-old self would have probably punched him in the gut for.

“So, here. I told you what I’m going to do once I’m in London. What do you plan to do with the next five years of your life?”

Malfoy sighs, like he’s pondering whether to indulge Harry’s curiosity or not.

“I’m studying Journalism at the LSE,” he finally says, “and when I graduate I’m hoping to find a job. Probably at a Muggle paper — I’m not sure the _Daily Prophet_ would hire me. Them or any other wizarding paper, for that matter.”

All of these words make sense to Harry, just not coming from Draco Malfoy’s mouth.

“Please tell me you’re someone else, Polyjuiced as Malfoy.”

“Sorry, Potter. That’s all me.”

“You went from the most pureblooded wizard I know to a student at a Muggle university in a year?”

“Again, I didn’t have a choice. And maybe it was for the best. I couldn’t very well come back to Hogwarts, could I? Not after—” He stops short, swallows, darts a glance at Harry. “Not after _everything._ And to be honest, I didn’t really want to. I wanted to learn something new about the world, and clearly the wizarding world and all the shitty ideology I grew up with weren’t going to provide it.”

“Why journalism, then?”

“Something I’ve always wanted to do. I wanted to be a reporter when I was little. It sounded like the perfect job to explore, to understand the world... to be more like my father." He lifts his hand before Harry has time to say anything. "I know, I know. Silly me, right? And then I got that idea smacked right out of my head anyway, when I told my father and he didn’t speak to me for _weeks._ After that, my only contact with journalists was Rita Skeeter, and I think we both agree she wasn’t exactly aspirational. And I thought — I was told being a reporter didn’t befit a pureblood of my family’s status. Or former status, rather.” He shrugs. “As you can imagine, I don’t really give a fuck about that anymore.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, stirring his eyes away from him. Malfoy looks too sharp and feels too real, shattering the dream-like quality of his day. His determined profile stirs an odd kind of nostalgia within Harry. The kind that reminds him of all the paths that are already closing down in front of him because of the choices he’s making at nineteen. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

 

****

 

The sun is setting as they drive into the car park of a brightly lit pub just outside of Edinburgh. Malfoy had said he needed a break, and Harry had welcomed the idea of dinner before the last stretch of their journey.

Once they’d started talking, they didn’t stop. And while conversation with Malfoy was almost physically exhausting, the man switching from a serious topic to a mocking remark so fast it gave Harry’s brain whiplash, Harry quenched at least part of his curiosity.

During the car journey, he learnt that Malfoy had got into the LSE’s Bachelor’s in Journalism by forging a Muggle college diploma and recommendation letters. Future-Auror Harry was horrified by it, but rule-breaking Harry was appreciative of Malfoy’s resourcefulness. Anyway, Malfoy talked about his courses with such passion — he was apparently top of his class that first year — Harry was reminded that even among Muggles Malfoy was a Slytherin through and through, and the end would always justify the means for him.

In return, Harry told Malfoy about his plans for the summer, the countries and places he was going to visit with his friends, and Malfoy nodded in all the right places, sharing memories of his own childhood holidays in the south of France, Santorini or the Amalfi Coast.

It’s only when they’re inside the pub, and Malfoy settles across from him in an empty booth, that Harry ponders how weird it is, sitting here in a Muggle pub in the middle of nowhere about to have dinner with Draco Malfoy of all people. He thinks back to the beginning of this day, to Ginny’s arms around his neck as they said goodbye. If someone had told him the day would end like this, he would have been deeply incredulous at the very least.

“What are you drinking?” Malfoy asks him. “This round’s on me.”

“Any lager they have on tap is fine,” Harry says, wishing — not for the first time since they had left — that he knew how to drive, too. As it is, Malfoy is going to drive all the way to London, which will surely be exhausting.

Malfoy smirks when Harry voices that thought.

“I owe you a Life Debt, Potter. Consider it part of my repayment.”

Harry can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and before he can ask him Malfoy takes off to the bar.

Harry flips through the menu to avoid following Malfoy’s progress through the crowd, his lean figure standing out in the corner of Harry’s vision despite his best efforts. Harry imagines how striking Malfoy must look among the Muggles of the pub, all long lines and high cheekbones and pale hair — hell, he thinks Malfoy already looks striking among his own kind, despite Harry being used to him. He has known him for years.

He wonders when he’s started thinking of Malfoy in those terms, like he’s paying attention to how he looks and how he moves.

 _Sixth year,_ whispers a traitorous voice in his mind.

Harry is pulled out of his embarrassing thoughts by a pint dropped in front of him on the table, blond beer and white foam almost sloshing out of the glass. Malfoy sits across from him, a glass of something orangey-red in his hand. Tomato juice, Harry realises. He wonders if Malfoy doesn’t drink alcohol at all, or if it’s just because he’s driving.

“So you’re settling with Miss Weasley, then,” Malfoy says. He’s clearly following up on what Harry told him earlier in the car, but it still seems slightly out of the blue. The choice of words makes Harry bristle a little.

“I’m not _settling!”_ Again with the defensiveness. “Ginny is great.”

“I never said she wasn’t.”

“No, but you implied it.”

“I did not. I’m just curious. Honestly, I am,” he lifts his hands to show he means no harm. “Aren’t you a bit young for such a serious commitment?”

“No! Look, Ginny is great. She is! She’s pretty, and fun, and strong. She’s been there for me when I needed — when I needed her. I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone else like her,” he finishes, and he knows — _hates_ — the finality of it, that it makes him sound like he’s saying, _I’ll never find anyone who shall put up with me the way she does._

Malfoy surveys him for a long moment, then lifts his glass to his lips and looks away.

“I see.”

“What do you see?” Harry scowls, irritated by how much Malfoy winds him up without even seeming to try.

“No, it’s all very clear.”

 _“What,”_ Harry grinds out, exasperated now.

Malfoy turns to fix him with that unreadable pale gaze of his.

“You’ve never had great sex before.”

Harry spits his mouthful of beer, and Malfoy simply lifts an eyebrow, Harry’s reaction having, it seems, confirmed his statement.

 _“What?”_ he chokes out.

“You heard me.”

“It so happens that Ginny and I have _lots_ of great sex,” he says, a little too vehemently. Fuck, he doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. They do have great sex, don’t they? He folds his arms and adds belatedly, “and I’m not going to discuss my and Ginny’s sex life with you.”

“I’m just saying,” Malfoy leans his elbows on the table, his face close to Harry’s now, “if you’d actually had great sex with Ginevra Weasley, that’s what you would have told me. Maybe not in those exact words, but trust me, the _passion_ —” he mimes air quotes sarcastically with a disgusted sneer “— would have transpired. Instead, you make it sound so... so _dry,_ so practical. I can only assume sex is _not_ the reason why you’re settling.” He leans back against the back of his seat. “No offense to Ginevra Weasley’s talents, of course.”

Harry splutters for a moment, at a loss for words. Any further disproving will likely be used as confirmation by the sly arsehole.

Instead, he chooses to attack from a different angle.

“How would you know?”

Malfoy lifts a shoulder, looking already bored with the conversation. It’s just a posture, Harry is sure of that. There’s a glint in Malfoy’s eye that presses him to continue.

“Well?”

“Granted, I know very little about hetero sex — the little I’ve tried was unappealing enough that I didn’t seek to repeat the experience, trust me. It was enough to confirm that I’m gay, although I’d known that for quite a while.”

It’s not an answer to Harry’s question, and yet he asks another one. He only realises how insensitive it is once it’s already out there.

“What do you parents think of it?”

“You mean my being bent?” Malfoy fixes him with his ice-grey eyes, and Harry doesn’t move an inch until he continues. “Well — my father is in Azkaban for the next twenty years, as you very well know, so his opinion hardly matters. And my mother... you’ve met her, Potter. You know what’s important to her. She’s just glad I’m alive. She just wants me to be happy. She will never care about anything else.”

They stare at each other for a moment, challenging each other to speak — to say something offensive, something hurtful. But Harry feels like all the fight has drained out of him. Despite his snarkiness and sarcasm, Malfoy has been surprisingly candid with him since the beginning of their trip. And now, in the warm buzz of that Muggle pub, with Sixpence None The Richer's _Kiss Me_ playing on the radio in the background, Harry’s pint leaving droplets of condensation on its coaster and the booth they’re sitting at enclosing them almost intimately, he just wants to let go. Just wants to get to know the man in front of him a little better, before their trip is over and they go their separate ways.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s order some food, shall we?”

 

****

 

When they are done eating — Harry wolfed down his steak and kidney pie, Malfoy gingerly picked at his vinegary fish and chips — Harry waves the waitress for the bill. He looks at it for a moment, trying to decide whether he should pay for both their meals, since Malfoy is pulling more that his share of work with the driving today. He’s absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his lips, wondering if it would be weird to invite Malfoy, when he lifts his head and catches his dinner companion staring at him with an odd look on his face.

“What?” He rubs the back of his hand to his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

Malfoy leans closer with his elbows on the table and looks at him speculatively.

“You’ve turned out to be quite attractive,” he muses. “Blaise never mentioned.”

Harry feels a ridiculous flush creep up his cheeks.

Before he has time to protest — ask Malfoy to explain? Thank him? What are you supposed to say to that? — Malfoy adds pensively: “I guess I remembered you as that scrawny kid from school. And you annoyed the living hell out of me, so that doesn't help. Blaise never told me you’ve so successfully grown into your looks. That’s odd. It’s something he would have definitely pointed out before asking me to drive you and his car to London.”

“Maybe he doesn’t think I’m attractive,” Harry says thoughtlessly, his voice coming out more strangled than he expects.

“Well, I’ll clearly need to have a word with him when I see him again. He might be straight as an arrow, but the man still has eyes. So he has no excuses.”

Harry is speechless for a moment, then a doubt crosses his mind.

“Are you taking the piss?”

Malfoy looks taken aback. “No, why?”

Then… “Are you coming on to me?” Harry needs to make sure it’s not the case.

It’s not. It’s definitely not.

_Is it not?_

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like it if I was?”

“No!” Harry says, too quickly. _Shit._ “Anyway, I’m taken, remember?”

“And you’re straight, so. No, I’m not coming on to you, Potter. I’m just stating the obvious.”

The light flush Harry has felt creeping to his cheeks must now be a bright shade of red.

“Well, thanks, I guess. Can you drop the matter now?” He drops a few Muggle bank notes on the table in a hurry as he stands up to leave. Malfoy follows his lead and trails him out of the pub.

“Alright, alright, I’ve obviously made you uncomfortable. I take it back.”

“You can’t just _take it back,”_ Harry snaps, rounding on Malfoy, fists clenched, just feet away from the car. “What kind of thing is it to say to someone if you’re not trying to hit on them?”

“Do you not like that I find you objectively attractive?” Malfoy’s grey eyes glimmer in the dark, and he definitely looks amused — like he’s just pulled a good prank and Harry fell for it head first. “It doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

“Leave it be, Malfoy.”

Malfoy unlocks the car and they both take their seats, Malfoy looking smug, Harry fuming.

“Are you going to be pissed at me for the rest of the trip?” Malfoy finally breaks the tense silence and starts the car, driving it slowly back to the road.

“No. I’m just done talking for now. You may claim to have changed since school, but you’re still a git.”

“So are you, but I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”

Harry folds his arms and stares determinedly out the window.

“Fine,” Malfoy sighs as though he’s dealing with a temperamental toddler, and Harry can feel his eyes roll. “To London, then.”

Harry stays silent for a long time, trying to put a stop to the angry, disturbing, pathetic thoughts running through his head, and failing.

 

****

 

The first thought that pops into Harry’s head as he wakes up is that falling asleep was a mistake. A very, very stupid mistake. There’s a kink in his neck that is probably lodged there permanently.

“Ow,” he lifts his head from the headrest of his seat, grimacing as he massages the hard knot of muscle on the side of his neck.

“Slept alright?” Malfoy’s voice sounds as sarcastic as ever, but Harry detects a softer note underneath. Maybe Malfoy used the night to think over the last day’s conversations, as well.

“Like a bloody charm,” Harry sits up straight with a groan.

Outside the car windows, the lush Scotland greenery has given way to the greys and browns of outer London, and a quick Tempus informs Harry that it’s nearly seven in the morning. They will be arriving in London soon, and then... the rest of his life as he planned it can begin.

Again, his heart squeezes in a curious rush of anticipation and nostalgia.

“Are you tired?” he turns to Malfoy, who looks as unperturbed and aristocratic as ever, if only a shade paler. There are light shadows forming under his eyes, and Harry imagines he can’t wait to catch up on last night’s sleep.

“I’m okay,” Malfoy’s lips curl in a half-smile. “Once you decided to shut up, it was actually quite restful.”

Harry snorts. “You’re a git.”

“So are you. Why are we stating the obvious?”

Malfoy is grinning now, and Harry feels the corners of his mouth tug up. It’s another beautiful day and the early summer sun is playing in Malfoy’s hair, turning it alternatively silver and white, making his pale eyes almost transparent.

Harry can’t deny that he’s actually become a very attractive man, too. He’d rather die again than pay any sort of compliment to Draco Malfoy, though.

“We’ll be in London in less than half an hour. You must be overjoyed to see the last of me,” he tells him instead.

Malfoy keeps his eyes on the road, his smile fading a bit. Harry wonders if he’s heard him, but then Malfoy says, “It’s a small world, Potter. You don’t think we’ll meet again?”

“I don’t know. You said you were studying with Muggles, and that you will most certainly work with Muggles once you graduate. I’m going to be an Auror, I’m going to move in with Ginny, all my friends are wizards and witches… I don’t see our paths crossing again in the future. Do you?”

“Ah, a life free of the Great Harry Potter.” Malfoy heaves a dramatic sigh. “I must be truly cursed.”

Harry laughs.

“Don’t call me that! Merlin, I am _not_ going to miss you, Malfoy.”

“I am not going to miss you either, Potter. I think I’ll live with that.”

They go back to watching the streets of London sprawled in front of them. They’re both smiling now, a comfortable silence settling around them.

Harry would be at a loss to pinpoint exactly when their mean words turned into playful banter, so he just lets Malfoy drive past the tree-covered slopes of Regent’s Park, the Baker Street underground station.

Soon the long silhouette of King’s Cross appears in front of them, and Malfoy steers the Volkswagen into a side street and parks it between a van and a green Mini Austin that looks at least ten years older than Harry. He suspects a little bit of magic was involved to make their car fit into the tiny space, and the thought oddly cheers him up.

It may not be the end of Malfoy’s wandless probation yet, but the man still exudes magic like few people Harry’s been around. He wouldn’t be surprised if Malfoy could magically park a car just by really wanting it.

Without a word, they both get out of the car and Malfoy helps Harry lift his school trunk out of the boot.

Once Harry is ready to go and there isn’t anything else to do, they just look at each other. The easy mood of their last hour on the road has dissipated, leaving behind only visibly shared awkwardness.

Malfoy is the first to shake himself out of it.

“Alright, Potter. I have to get going.”

Harry holds out his hand, and Malfoy wraps his long fingers around Harry’s. His handshake is dry and firm, and Harry wonders for a fleeting moment how different both their lives would have been if that handshake had happened eight years before.

They both let go at the same time, and Harry pulls his trunk to the pavement.

“Have a nice life, Harry Potter. Best of luck with becoming Minister for Magic someday,” Malfoy calls out and flashes him a smirk on his way back to the car.

“And you being a world-class reporter. Have a nice life, Draco Malfoy,” Harry calls back.

He watches until the black Golf drives around the corner of the street, then shakes his head and Apparates away.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_We could steal time just for one day  
_ David Bowie** **_, Heroes_ **

 

**September 2000**

 

Harry rushes through the crowd gathered on the steps of King’s College Health Centre, his messenger bag bumping on his hip, and swears under his breath. Not that the sheer number of students — Muggle and magic ones alike — should be a surprise. Small groups of them are scattered all the way to the Temple underground station, and their number by square metre increases the closer he gets to the buildings of King’s College.

It’s the beginning of September, the start of the school year, and after all, Harry is one of those students, too.

His brisk pace toward the St Helga’s School for Healing is interrupted by the sight of a familiar white-blonde head among the throngs of students. Harry stops in his tracks.

It can’t be him, he thinks.

And yet, it is.

As always, Malfoy is unmistakable. His hair might be shorter than the last time he saw him, his clothes more confidently Muggle, grey skinny jeans and a dark blue cardigan over his shirt, but it’s still Malfoy. Still that tall, lean frame, all square shoulders and narrow hips — and when he turns his face to the right, that same long nose and pointy profile Harry had had hours to study during their car ride the summer before.

Harry starts walking toward Malfoy, all thoughts of being late to his first class forgotten, when Malfoy smiles to someone in the crowd, holds out a hand, and seconds later a tall, dark-haired, nice-looking bloke takes it, moves into his space and kisses him.

Harry gapes at the happy couple exchanging closed-lipped kisses and sweet smiles in the warm September sun. Somehow it takes him a moment to reconcile the image of the Malfoy he’s always known — all sharp edges and pent-up anger and insufferable condescendence — with the man standing in front of him, looking soft and happy in the arms of a stranger.

He remembers what Malfoy told him about his sexuality, but it's weird to see him with a man. Or, if Harry's honest with himself, anyone. Back in school, Malfoy never struck him as the relationship type.

Before he can help it, Harry pushes past the group of students separating him from Malfoy. He stands in front of him and clears his throat.

“Erm.”

Malfoy slowly looks away from the guy — his _boyfriend,_ by the look of it, and Harry’s gut gives a weird little squeeze — and his pale gaze lands straight into Harry’s. His flinch is so imperceptible that no one other than Harry, who’s spent an inordinate amount of time observing him in the past few years, would notice anything other than Malfoy’s usual haughty façade.

“Potter,” he just says, Harry’s surname stretching longer than necessary as if Malfoy’s missed saying it and is now relishing the sound.

The handsome bloke shifts his eyes between Harry and Malfoy, looking slightly bewildered, and Harry is secretly pleased that Malfoy doesn’t immediately put the guy at ease by introducing them. Nevertheless, the rudeness of interrupting them finally dawns on him, and he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

“What are you doing here?”

Malfoy gestures at his boyfriend. “Liam’s first day at King’s. I’m just saying good luck,” he smiles, and the smile turns into a smirk when he returns the question. “And you, Potter?”

“I’m studying here, too.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen a little at that, and Harry remembers that Malfoy lives with Muggles now and probably doesn’t know every single detail about the _Great Harry Potter’s_ life. His resignation from the Aurors three months ago was all the _Daily Prophet_ wrote about for weeks.

“I’m not — I’m not in... _Law Enforcement_ anymore,” he tells Malfoy with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows, hoping that Malfoy will catch the meaning. “I’ve made a career change. I’m going into medicine.”

Malfoy’s lips form an ‘o’ of understanding and surprise, and Liam chimes in.

“Isn’t the School of Medicine over London Bridge? You’re on the wrong campus, mate.”

“Er, you’re right, I’m just here for... registration paperwork stuff.”

Malfoy snorts quietly at that. Liam, obviously a Muggle, doesn’t need to know that there is an entire magical building dedicated to Healing studies right under his nose.

“Okay..." Liam says doubtfully. "I’ve got to go, babe. I’ll see you later?” He leans in and kisses Malfoy on the cheek. Harry ponders the fact that there’s someone on Earth who is willing to call Malfoy ‘babe’. If _that_ can happen, anything is possible.

Then Liam’s gone, leaving Harry face to face with the man he thought he would never see again.

“Healing, uh?” Malfoy’s small smile morphs into a smirk once more. “That’s quite a change of heart.”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs. “Turns out, being an Auror was not for me.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what made our Saviour veer from his path to glory.”

“You don’t think that a career in Healing is just as meaningful?”

“You’re missing the point. I just wonder what made you change your mind. I didn’t think it was possible. The way I remember you from school, you were the most pig-headed, stubborn prat I’d ever met.” He says that lightly. A statement, not an insult.

“Wow, Malfoy, way to compliment a guy. Buy me dinner first next time, maybe?”

To Harry’s intense satisfaction, Malfoy blushes a bit at that. Once he looks like he’s recovered, he narrows his eyes at Harry.

“I wasn’t _complimenting_ you, Potter.” He lets out a frustrated little hiss. “I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like I care about what you do with your life.”

“Still studying journalism?” Harry provides instead, jerking his chin in the general direction of the London School of Economics. Malfoy looks mildly surprised, as if he didn’t expect Harry to remember anything from their last conversation.

“Yes. I’m starting my third year.”

“Congratulations. I hope it’s going well,” Harry hears himself say, and is caught by this own genuine words. It seems that he’s actually pleased for Malfoy, and it’s an unexpected feeling.

He makes to move toward St Helga’s and gestures for Malfoy to follow him.

“Walk with me? Unless you’ve got places to be.”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy falls in stride with him. “So you’re going to be a Healer, then? What does your girlfriend think of that?”

“Ginny?” Harry hesitates, not sure he wants to let Malfoy steer the conversation toward his love life. Not that he has a problem discussing Ginny — it just feels odd, inappropriate somehow, to talk about it with Malfoy. “Ginny’s fine with that. She works really hard anyway. Holyhead Harpies Chaser,” he provides when he sees the blank look on Malfoy’s face. Right. He probably doesn’t follow Quidditch either, then. “It won’t make much of a difference in our schedules.”

If Malfoy wants to comment on Harry’s words, he does a good job keeping his mouth shut. Words from their conversation at that pub more than a year ago echo in Harry’s head. _You make it sound so dry, so practical._

He shakes his head — it’s really not something he’d like to dwell on right now. Not when the weather is still beautiful even as summer is ending. Not when he’s at the beginning of a new career, one he chose as an adult considering all his options rather than as a teenager looking to follow the path of his childhood heroes. Not when there is a very striking man walking right next to him, when he just wants to relish the company of that infuriating prat, even if he has no idea why he does.

Deep down, he must be masochistic, seeking out Malfoy, starting up a chat with the childhood bane of his existence.

Yet in the middle of those Muggle students, right here in Muggle London, nobody knows who Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are. Nobody judges them on their pasts, and it feels both secretive and liberating to have this easy, mundane interaction with him.

“What about Liam?” Harry asks. “You guys been together for long?”

Malfoy lifts an indifferent shoulder. “Just a few months. He’s nice.”

“Does he know you’re—“ Harry stops, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“A wizard? A former school bully? A fucking _war criminal_?” Malfoy provides casually, but Harry doesn’t miss the note of challenge in his voice.

“I was going to say a wizard, but... how much can you tell him anyway? He’s a Muggle, right?”

“Obviously, Potter. I haven’t told him any of that. How well do you think it would go down? Not that it matters anyway. It has no relevance to my life these days.”

Harry slows down as they almost reach his building. He can feel his wand in his jeans’ right pocket, pressing against his thigh, and wonders how it must feel to be without it. There are days when thoughts of disappearing into the Muggle world are extremely tempting — especially when the _Daily Prophet_ runs another speculative article about the Boy Who Lived, about his love life or his dropping out of the Aurors or his fucking trips to the shops. But magic is an unshakeable part of his life now. And Malfoy seems to have forsaken it completely.

“I don’t know,” Harry tells him. “It must be weird, keeping such a big part of yourself out of a relationship.”

He knows he’s hurt Malfoy’s feelings by the passing flash of anger in his grey eyes. That’s a look he’s seen directed at him so many times in his Hogwarts years that he recognizes it instantly, even as Malfoy schools his features into that indifferent mask again.

“The way I see it, it’s just a nice white lie, Potter. What Liam doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and not going through the past is really not a problem for me. Win-win situation, as you can see.” His mouth curls into a teasing grin. “Also, you? Giving me relationship advice? That’s got to be a fucking joke.”

“Why not? I’ve been in a relationship longer than you,” Harry objects. It sounds like quite a poor argument, but it’s all he has.

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow, his smirk still in place. He holds out his right hand.

“I think you’re going to be late for class,” he drawls, and Harry knows he’s being dismissed. “Goodbye, Potter. It was unexpectedly fun to see you.”

Harry shakes his hand, two firm pumps, and lets go.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”

Malfoy turns on his heels and Harry’s eyes follow his white-blonde head drawing away among the scattered groups of students. Last summer, he thought he had seen the last of Malfoy. He’s not so certain about it now.

 

****

 

**April 2004**

 

The flames in the fireplace of Harry’s sitting room flare green for a second, startling Bowie, Harry’s silver Kneazle. Hermione steps on the rug, shaking her bushy mane of brown hair and dusting her jeans. She’s followed by Ron, who calls out to Harry as soon as he’s cleared the hearth.

“Alright, mate?”

Harry has just placed three glasses and a bottle of Firewhisky on the coffee table — one of the more expensive ones he owns, because why the fuck not. The event warrants some high quality inebriation. It doesn’t stop Hermione from looking at the display with a scowl, and Harry briefly wonders how much she’s judging him.

“I also have beer in the fridge,” he’s quick to apologise.

“Firewhisky is fine,” Ron throws a glance at Hermione and she looks away. He lifts his hand, a big brown bag dangling from his freckled fingers. “We brought thai. Reckon we’ll all be fine with pad see ew and massaman curry?”

“That’s perfect, thank you Ron,” Harry tells him as they all pick their usual spots around Harry’s sitting room: Hermione on the red velvet ottoman, Ron on one side of the chesterfield and Harry on the other. Bowie jumps on the leather cushions and steps onto Harry’s lap; he looks at him with his big mismatched eyes, one blue and one black, pleading for attention. When Harry scratches his ears, he curls up on his lap and starts purring contentedly.

After five years living here, Harry’s flat finally feels like home. When Harry reached the last stretch of Healer training, his schedule started to clear a bit and he had more time to spend on the flat, decorating it, painting the walls in light colours, and casting _Reparo_ ’s on every item of furniture Bowie had set his mind to scratch. Now the flat looks clean and lived-in, something it never did when Harry and Ginny lived here together, both of them always spending more time outside of the house than inside.

Ginny left a week ago, and Harry has not yet been hit with the loneliness of living alone instead of living with someone. He wonders if he ever will be.

“So,” Hermione begins, all business.

“So,” he replies, at a loss where to start.

“We’re sorry, mate,” Ron says. “We knew you weren’t spending a lot of time together lately... it had been a while since we saw the two of you together, but… splitting up. That’s harsh.”

Harry nods. “How’s Ginny?”

“She’s… weirdly okay, I guess? She’s staying at Mum and Dad’s but she’s already started looking for a flat. She says she’ll be fine.”

Hermione reaches out from her seat and places a warm hand on Harry’s thigh. “How about you? How are you feeling?”

Harry hesitates. It’s weird, talking about his break-up when his ex-girlfriend’s brother is here to listen. But Ron gives him an encouraging smile, and he says:

“I’m fine. I think — I think it’s a relief.” He grimaces and throws an apologetic glance at Ron. “For the both of us. It wasn’t working out anymore. Probably hadn’t been working out for years. With her job and my studies, we just never saw each other, you know?”

Despite Harry’s reassuring words and rational explanations, Hermione still has that concerned look on her face and Ron looks slightly worried.

“Hermione and I also have busy schedules. Somehow we still manage to spend time together. Don’t we, ‘Mione?” Ron asks, and Hermione squeezes his hand comfortingly. Harry shakes his head.

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s not what it is. It’s just... Ginny and I, we’ve known each other for so long, you know? And when we got together — I don’t know. I was just trying to forget. To put everything that happened out of my mind. The war, that horrible year... I didn’t want to discuss any of it, neither did she, and we both seemed to be okay with it.

His two best friends exchange a look, and Harry knows what it means. Ron and Hermione talked things through thoroughly in the first years of their relationship. Hell, they still fight and talk and make up all the time. Harry used to think it was weird and a bit unhealthy, all these fights. But now he sees the use of them. After all, Ron and Hermione had been through the very worst days of their lives together. Pretending the years of war, the battle of Hogwarts, the death of family members and friends had never happened, had not affected them, was all kinds of fucked up. Now that Harry stops to think about it, that’s exactly what Ginny and him had done.

“I guess — we followed our own separate paths, and we never stopped to check if we were going in the same direction. At the end, it was like we didn’t even know each other. Didn’t know the people we’d become. I still saw her like that… _ideal_ girl I fell in love with when I was seventeen, and she still saw me like her childhood crush come true.”

“How do you know?” Ron asks, as if there’s still a hope for Harry and Ginny’s relationship. Harry looks his friend straight in the eyes.

“She told me.”

Ron grimaces, and Hermione offers: “So you’re saying you realised you’ve changed only recently?”

“Yeah. I had more time these past few months, and we tried, you know. To reconnect. We started going out on dates together again. But it just wasn’t working anymore. I still love her. I do. I reckon she loves me too. Just not like this. It was like going out with a friend, and forcing ourselves to do couple-y stuff. Like holding hands and kissing and those little gestures… it just felt forced in the end.” He sighs, rakes a tired hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes I wonder — Ginny and I — could we have had what you two have? And then, in retrospect... I feel like something was off from the beginning.”

Unbidden, Draco Malfoy’s cool grey eyes and sharp words — _it was just practical, Potter. Obviously, you’ve never had great sex before —_ flash in his mind, and he’s taken aback by the intensity of the unexpected memory. He pushes the thought away quickly. He hates that Malfoy saw the truth of Harry’s relationship with Ginny years before Harry even began to come to terms with it.

Hermione looks at him curiously, and he realises he must have looked lost in thought for a moment. At the same time, Bowie grabs Harry’s hand between his pink-tipped paws and gently nips his fingers. With a start, he resumes stroking his Kneazle’s silver fur, and Bowie relaxes in his lap once again.

“Harry,” Hermione says. “Don’t think for a moment that what Ron and I have has been easy—”

“That’s right,” Ron mutters under his breath with a fond shake of his head.

“—But we knew each other inside and out even before we got together, you know? We knew all the good stuff and the bad stuff and the stuff in between… and then we talked about it some more. Maybe you and Ginny never had the chance to get to know each other like that.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. You’re right. But it’s over. Neither of us want to keep trying.”

Hermione’s warm hand covers his again, and his feeling of hopelessness lifts a little.

“You need someone who will be willing to know you like that,” she says. “The good and the bad. I’m not saying Ginny wouldn’t have been able to, but… after so many years with someone, it’s difficult to take a step back and change your perspective on them.”

Harry lets out a derisive laugh. “I don’t think that person exists, Hermione. I’ll always be the — the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding world,” he adds with sarcastic air quotes. “Any potential partner will have a hard time seeing beyond that. Or I’ll just end up disappointing them, like I did with Ginny. Nobody wants to really deal with the baggage I come with.”

Ron claps him lightly on the back. “Mate, we all come with that fucked-up baggage. All our friends do. We lived through a bloody _war_ , for Merlin’s sake.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I already know all our friends. I already know I’m not going to date them.”

“What about Muggles?” Hermione muses. “You could date Muggles.”

Again, the image of Malfoy with that good-looking bloke in the middle of the courtyard of King’s College a few years ago hits him like a Bludger, and Harry scowls at himself. It’s twice in five minutes that he’s thought of Malfoy, and honestly it’s twice too much.

“I don’t want to pretend I’m someone I’m not, either,” he tells her. “And I would have to if I were to date a Muggle. At least if I want something serious and long-term.”

His friends look at one another, clearly at a loss for words. Hermione doesn’t have any counter argument for that, and Harry knows he’s right. He managed to have the last word on her, but he doesn’t feel triumphant. He feels defeated.

Ron reaches for the bottle of Firewhisky then. “Come on, Harry. We didn’t come here to upset you. We came here to try Ogden’s 25 year old single malt!”

Ron pours a generous measure of drink in each of the three tumblers on the small table and they take their lightly-smoking glasses, clinking them with somewhat forced cheerfulness. Harry knows it won’t take long for the mood to lighten, though. It never stays dark for too long, not when he’s with his friends, not when they’ve a good drink in hand.

“To your newfound freedom?” Ron ventures.

“To the endless possibilities of being a hot bachelor in London?” Hermione winks at him.

Bowie meows happily and jumps on the coffee table, waving his tail in excitement.

And Harry laughs and lifts his glass, and maybe things won’t be too bad after all.

 

****

 

“Harry,” Hermione appears round the corner of the International Law aisle. “I’m almost done. Neville has all the Muggle botany books he needs. I think he’s waiting for us downstairs. Will you help me carry those to the till?”

If it wasn’t for her big hair, she’d have almost disappeared behind the pile of books she’s carrying propped against her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, putting the cookbook he’d been distractedly leafing through back on its shelf. It will be Molly Weasley’s birthday soon, and he wants something original to give her. She and Arthur might be interested in trying some Muggle cooking. He focuses on that, and not the fact that he will be seeing Ginny again for the first time since their split.

“Oh, sorry. You were looking at books, too?” She puts her pile of books on a table covered with health and fitness manuals and she approaches the rows of cookbooks. “Molly?” she asks.

“Yep. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think she expects this kind of gift?”

Hermine exhales a laugh, but stops short when her eyes fall on the end of the aisle.

“Harry.” She elbows him lightly in the ribs, and he follows her gaze.

He recognizes the man standing two aisles further instantly, and the sight is a strangely painful jolt in the gut. Draco Malfoy is skimming through a paperback, looking completely in his element in the Muggle setting of the Piccadilly Circus Waterstones, the slender lines of his body accentuated by a pair of skinny jeans and a thin black turtleneck jumper. His hair is artfully ruffled, more so than the last time Harry saw him, and if it wasn’t for his characteristic paleness and grey eyes, the alien quality of his high cheekbones and pointy face, he would look like any other customer in the shop.

As if sensing the combined stares of Harry and Hermione on him, he looks up at that moment, and his eyes widen for a fraction of second. He puts the book back on the shelf and heads towards them, his gait relaxed yet determined, like a leopard on the prowl.

Harry can feel Hermione’s unease radiating from her, but she puts on a polite smile and nods to the approaching man.

“Hello, Granger,” Malfoy says. A pause, “Potter.” His eyes linger on Harry’s face for a second longer than necessary.

“Hello, Draco,” Hermione responds, and Harry can tell by the slight catch of Malfoy’s given name on her lips that she’s forcing herself to say it, to be the better person, to leave the past behind — if only for appearances’ sake. “I didn’t know you frequented Muggle bookshops,” she adds.

Count on Hermione to let her curiosity take precedence over her dislike of Malfoy, Harry thinks. He knows before they even started to talk that he’s doomed, and he’s not going to get away from this new random meeting with Malfoy with just a few stilted minutes of small talk.

“Oh. Potter didn’t tell you,” Malfoy replies, and now Harry is under the combined scrutiny of Malfoy’s and Hermione’s gazes — Malfoy’s smug and Hermione’s puzzled. “I’m a journalist. A _Muggle_ journalist. I work for _The Times_.”

Hermione’s eyebrows disappear under her fringe. “Really?” She turns to Harry, hands on her hips. “You _knew_ that?”

“Er,” Harry avoids her gaze, but the only other person he can look at is Malfoy, and his amused smirk only makes the awkward moment worse. “Well I didn’t know you worked for _The Times_ ,” he finishes lamely.

“No hard feelings, Potter,” Malfoy all but laughs, and Harry is weirdly comforted by the familiar posh accent, the sound of his last name in Malfoy’s mouth. It almost feels good to hear it again, like a long-forgotten memory of his good teenage days. And it’s weird, because Malfoy was never a part of his _good_ teenage days.

Hermione’s eyes travel from Harry to Malfoy and back, then she picks up her wobbly pile of books and fixes Harry with a stare that very clearly says ' _I’m going to need an explanation for this and soon'_.

“Neville is waiting for me, Harry. You can stay. We’ll catch up later, okay?” Before Harry has time to protest, she leans her head to the side of her tower of books and nods to Malfoy. “Bye, Draco.”

Harry watches her trot off to the stairs for longer than strictly necessary. Eventually, he looks back at Malfoy when the blond git clears his throat.

“You didn’t tell your friends about me?” Malfoy says, mock-offended. “I thought you would love to share a good laugh about Draco Malfoy having to live with Muggles.”

“I didn’t think there was anything worth telling. Or laughing about, for that matter,” Harry grinds out. Merlin, how Malfoy can push his buttons with just a few chosen words and a tilt of his head.

Malfoy’s face softens, and his next words sound genuinely interested.

“What are you up to these days?”

“I’ve almost finished Healer training. I’m starting my residency in September.”

“What are you specialising in?”

“Pediatric Injuries and Maladies,” Harry replies. He has no idea why he’s standing here, between the cooking and fitness aisles of a Muggle bookshop, having a very civilised chat with Draco Malfoy. It’s been a while since he’s met someone from his old life who doesn’t know every single detail about him.

“Oh. Pediatrics? I would have thought—” Malfoy lifts a hand to the back of his neck, ruffling the short hair. “I’m surprised you’re not in Dark Curses Removal or something.”

“Yeah. Well. After Auror training, I realised... I’ve had enough Dark Arts for a lifetime.”

Harry gives him a rueful smile, but Malfoy’s eyes remain serious, as if he knows exactly that there’s nothing funny about it.

“And how is the lovely Miss Weasley?” he asks instead. The question unexpectedly puts Harry on his back foot. He remembers Malfoy’s analysis of his relationship, and he doesn’t want to give him a reason to gloat. And at the same time, he doesn’t have the energy to come up with a lie.

“I hear she’s fine.”

“Oh.” There’s a glimpse of something in Malfoy’s eyes. Understanding. And also something else. Harry just hopes it’s not triumph. “I’m sorry, Potter.”

“It’s okay,” he waves him off.

“When did it happen?”

“About a month ago.”

“Fuck.” Malfoy shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You were right,” he lifts his chin, and he knows Malfoy remembers their conversation from all those years ago. “It wasn’t meant to last, really. I’m surprised we made it through six years.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who’s newly single,” Malfoy shrugs. “Liam and I split up last week.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Malfoy,” Harry tells him. He means it.

“I’m fine, too. I’m over it, really.” He gives Harry a speculative once-over, and adds: “Do you want to grab lunch, maybe?”

 

****

 

“So how did it happen? You and Liam?” Harry says around a mouthful of curry. They’ve walked for twenty minutes and ended up in a shabby Indian place near Malfoy’s old uni that Malfoy swears serves the best lamb curry in Central London. Harry has to admit he’s not wrong.

Malfoy takes a paper napkin and wipes his mouth fastidiously. Harry ponders what a fascinating sight he makes, a posh, pureblood wizard eating Muggle curry with a plastic fork, out of an foil container.

A strand of white-blond hair falls in his eye and he whips it back before he speaks.

“He came to my flat one day, and he told me, out of the blue, ‘I think we should take a break.’ And I didn’t understand, because I never saw it coming. I thought we were fine. I asked him why he thought that, and he said, ‘I don’t know if I want to be in a relationship anymore.’” His grey eyes narrow, and he continues. “So I asked him to elaborate. ‘You don’t _know_ , or you’re sure?’. ‘I don’t know’, he told me. I told him I was okay with that, I’d let him have his space for a while and we could figure it out. And then the next day, he came back, and he said, ‘No, Draco, I’m sure.’ He packed up the things he’d left at my flat and left.”

“Well,” Harry says, putting his fork down. He’s not so hungry anymore. “I'm really sorry, Malfoy. If it makes you feel any better, he sounds like a right tosser.”

“That’s not all,” Malfoy says reluctantly. “He didn’t just want to stop being with me. He left me for somebody else.”

“How do you know?”

“I followed him. He’s already moved in with him. The same day he left.”

“Shit. Malfoy, I’m sorry.” And Harry is. At least he knows he and Ginny split up because they weren’t compatible, not because either one of them could be easily replaced. “For what it’s worth, it’s probably just a symptom that something else wasn’t working, yeah?"

Malfoy fixes him with his ice-grey eyes, and Harry sees the flicker of hurt.

“Yes. Well.” He sits back in his rickety plastic chair. “That symptom is fucking my boyfriend, Potter.”

 

****

 

“I’m going to be single forever,” Malfoy declares grandly as they stride along the Islington canal, his navy Belfast coat swishing across his legs fetchingly.

They left the curry place together, talking and walking, neither of them having anywhere to be that afternoon. Harry feels strangely compelled to stay with Malfoy, and he suspects Malfoy appreciates the company as well.

Harry just lets himself enjoy it — the early spring weather, just warm enough to walk around in just a jacket and a scarf, the sun peeking timidly between rain clouds, the glimmer of the canal waters, the snarky, open, pointless conversation with Malfoy.

“Get out of it, Malfoy. I bet you can find someone else with a snap of your fingers.” Harry realises what his choice of words implies when Malfoy throws him an amused glance.

“Really, Potter? Do you think I’m an eligible party?”

Harry hides his blush in the folds of his scarf. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Malfoy’s laugh echoes in the empty street. Harry finds that he rather likes the sound of it.

“No, please tell me more. I do like it when men count off my qualities. Is it my fashion sense? My wicked humour?” He eyes Harry and his smile turns positively feral. “My blinding good looks?”

Harry snorts. He remembers Malfoy’s admission years ago, the fact that he thought Harry was _objectively attractive_ , as he had stated. He wonders if it’s still the case. There’s no point in lying, anyway — he suspects Malfoy would see right through it.

“Yes, all right, Malfoy. You’re a good-looking bloke, okay?”

Malfoy stops in his tracks. Harry turns to see an incredulous smile on his face. His cheeks are a shade pinker than before and he looks bloody pleased with himself.

“Potter... I never thought I’d see the day.”

Harry laughs now, too. “Forget it, Malfoy. Now you’re going to be even smugger than usual.”

Malfoy’s eyes are still bright when he catches up with him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still going to be single forever.”

His tone is light and wry, yet Harry wonder how much Malfoy actually believes that. Or it might be that he’s just voicing Harry’s fears, the ones he tries to keep under wraps since Ginny left.

They keep their playful conversation until they reach the Angel underground station and Malfoy gestures toward a block of buildings a few terraces north. “This is me, Potter.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat, and Harry is reminded of the moment they said goodbye outside King’s Cross, at a time when they both thought they would never see each other again. And now they’ve already met twice by chance. Harry’s pretty certain he doesn’t like Malfoy still. The man in front of him seems to have changed, seems to be miles away from the bigoted, entitled arsehole he was in school, and yet their old antagonism is still here, only turned semi-friendly banter.

In any case, he’s not sure he wants to leave their next meeting entirely to fate.

“I have to admit, it was fun seeing you, Potter,” Malfoy says.

”Yeah. It was.” Malfoy turns to leave, and Harry catches his elbow quickly, stopping him. Malfoy looks at the spot where Harry’s hand is touching him, and Harry drops it, embarrassed. “Would you like to — I don’t know — have coffee or something, sometime?”

Harry squares his shoulders confidently but he’s sure Malfoy can detect the tentative tone of his question. He half-expects to be shot down, but Malfoy’s expression turns from bemused to oddly pleased. It makes him look younger, softer, the cool spring breeze ruffling his hair, and there’s a bright surge of happiness in Harry’s chest. Somehow he just knows what Malfoy’s next words will be.

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “Yes, I’d like that.”

He smiles in earnest now, and the bright happy light lodges itself under Harry’s ribs and stays.

Malfoy pats the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a grey Nokia.“Do you have a phone? Might be easier to reach me.” He frowns. “I don’t have an owl, obviously.”

Harry doesn’t have an owl either, for an entirely different reason. He's never wanted to think about replacing Hedwig, so he moved directly to Muggle technology instead.

He takes out his own mobile phone and shows it to Malfoy.

“I may still be a wizard, but I’m keeping up with the times, Malfoy.”

“Brilliant,” Malfoy flashes him a white-toothed smile and unlocks his phone. He presses it in Harry’s hand. “Just write down your number and I’ll text you.”

“Here,” Harry gives him back the phone when he’s done. “I guess I’ll see you soon, then?”

They shake hands. Harry feels pretty pleased, and Malfoy looks just like that, too.

“Yes. I’ll see you soon, Potter,” he smiles as he lets go of Harry’s hand and turns in the direction of his home.

Harry stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets and grins like an idiot all the way back to his own flat.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_I just want you to know that I don't hate you anymore  
_ Nirvana _, Serve The Servants_**

 

**May 2004**

 

“Draco speaking.”

“Malfoy? Hi. It’s me.”

A short hesitation at the end of the line, and then:

“Hello, Potter. I’m so glad I wasn’t expecting your call.”

Harry laughs. Hearing Malfoy’s posh accent and amused drawl is an odd kind of relief.

“Well, you did give me your number, I assume it was for me to use. And it’s only the first time I’m calling you.”

“Am I to get used to it?”

“Maybe.”

“Merlin help me. What’s up?”

“Er. Not much.” Harry curses his tendency to act first and think later. He’s spent the last hour pep-talking himself before calling Malfoy, but conversation topics are not something he’s thought about. “I was wondering if you were free.”

“What, tonight?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you have any friends, Potter?” Malfoy’s tone is one of gentle teasing.

“I do, but they already have plans. I was supposed to study for my Magical Beasts Injuries exam, but I could do with some fresh air, I think. We could go to the pub.”

Malfoy is silent, apparently thinking this over.

Then he says, “I have a better idea. My friend Lisa gave me tickets for a concert tonight. It’s that new Muggle singer. Really good voice.” He pauses, then breathes out a laugh. “The kind of girl who would have either Sorted Slytherin or Gryffindor, if she were a witch. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“Alright. Who is it?”

“Amy Winehouse. Concert’s at Shepherd’s Bush Empire.” He pauses. It feels weird, being asked out by Malfoy. Just two former childhood enemies, casually hanging out. “7 PM? How does that sound.”

He can hear Malfoy’s smile at the other end of the line.

“That sounds perfect, Malfoy.”

 

****

 

A few days later, they go to the Tate Modern, and Harry ends up stuck in front of a huge painting, the black square on blood red canvas overwhelming, threatening to swallow him whole.

He vaguely thinks that the artwork should trigger some sort of emotional meltdown in him. The whole thing looks like a panic attack transcribed on canvas. After all, the slightest things still make his head swim with irrational terror sometimes.

But astonishingly, not this one.

He feels more than hears Malfoy approaching, and then he’s next to him in front of the red Rothko, his shoulder brushing lightly against his.

“Feeling alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice sounds hoarse to his ears. He can hear Malfoy exhale, and he wonders if he sees the same things as he does. If the painting is cathartic for him, too, instead of terrifying.

He wonders if this is why Malfoy suggested the Tate Modern on this rainy Saturday afternoon. They walked together in the vast concrete void of the central lobby, then Malfoy took him straight to the second floor.

“Which one of those is your favourite?” Harry asks, looking around the exhibition room where the massive paintings take centre stage. Despite their imposing presence, Harry finds them  calming, their red and gold and dark depths oddly soothing.

Malfoy points to a black canvas. Two lighter vertical lines stand out of the darkness, as if floating a few inches above the wall. “This one,” he says.

“Merlin, Malfoy. Trust you to go for the bleakest one.”

Malfoy snorts. “And you for the Gryffindor red.” He turns around to glance at Harry, the dark shades of the painting reflected in his pale irises. “Please tell me it’s not your favourite colour?”

Harry laughs quietly. “You prat.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Malfoy crows. “You’re so predictable, Potter.”

“Oh yeah? You’re telling me _green_ isn’t your favourite colour?”

Malfoy flushes lightly, and Harry finds it disturbingly charming. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Slytherins,” he mutters with a half-smile, shaking his head.

 

****

 

“Hello, Potter. Can’t sleep?”

“No. You?”

“I haven’t slept in years. Nothing new.”

Malfoy’s bored drawl does nothing to hide the haunting truth of the statement. Harry resists the urge to say, ‘me neither’.

Instead, he asks:

“What are you doing?”

“It’s eleven twenty on a Wednesday night, Potter.” He sighs. “I’m in my pyjamas, in bed, watching that French film. It’s all very exciting.”

“A French film? You’re such a ponce.”

“And you’re an uncouth swine.”

“Fine. Which channel is it on?”

Malfoy tells him, and Harry flips through the channels until he finds it. He leans back against the back of the chesterfield, pulling the red plaid over his chest and sighing contentedly. His Kneazle joins him there, curling into a ball against his side and purring with the force of a small motor. Harry’s hand automatically goes to scratch Bowie’s ears, and the purring intensifies.

His telly is tucked between the fireplace and the tall bookshelf in his sitting room, and the images on screen show a beautified Paris and a pretty girl with a heart-shaped face wearing her dark hair in a short bob. She seems sweet and terribly infatuated with a shy-looking, skinny young man.

“What’s the film?” Harry asks.

“ _Amelie_.”

“The actress’s cute.”

“The actor, too.”

Harry internally agrees with Malfoy, but he quickly shoots down that train of thought. He hates when it happens, when thoughts like those cross his mind. None of his straight friends ever say anything about finding other men attractive, and it scares him. Having those thoughts. Being different.

Harry stares at the screen some more, just listening to the melodic French dialogue and to Malfoy’s soft breathing at the other end of the line.

After a while, he furrows his brow. “Doesn’t she remind you of someone we know? The actress?”

“Hmm. Pansy Parkinson?”

Harry snaps his fingers. “Yes! Exactly.”

“It’s the black bob, isn’t it?”

“And the big brown eyes.”

“Hmm.”

“Wasn’t she a friend of yours?... Girlfriend?”

Harry doesn’t know if he should be bringing it up. It feels illicit, somehow. They usually just skim over the subject of the past, him and Malfoy, lest their blooming amicable relationship crumble under the weight of things unforgiven.

“Both. She was the first girl I slept with.” Harry holds his breath, surprised by the confession. Malfoy huffs a soft laugh and continues. “The only one, really. It was all very awkward and fumbling, but she still gloats about how she took my girl-virginity, the cow.”

Harry can’t help himself. “ _Girl_ -virginity?”

“Yes... It’s when you sleep with a girl, Potter,” Malfoy explains matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t know there were different types of virginity,” Harry says.

He knows he walked straight into that one when Malfoy purrs: “Oh yes. _Oh yes_ , there are, Potter.”

Harry swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He has no idea why he’s reacting that way. Malfoy is obviously just taking the piss.

He clears his throat and changes the subject.

“Do you still see her then?”

“Yes, of course. Pansy and Blaise are my best friends. _Magic_ friends, I mean. I’ve made Muggle friends over the years, too, believe it or not. Pansy and Blaise —  I just don’t see them as often as I would like. Doing what I do.”

“Do you miss them?”

A pause, then Malfoy says, “Did you call me about something specific, Potter?”

Harry feels like he’s been shut down. “Not really. I couldn’t sleep, and I was driving my Kneazle crazy. Just —“

“It’s okay. You can call me. It doesn’t have to be _about_ something.”

Harry’s throat feels tight. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

They stay silent for another while.

Harry is comfortable enough with Malfoy now that silence doesn’t bother him. It feels good talking to him. Harry knows he has friends he can talk to — hell, Hermione almost falls over in her attempts to get him to open up about his feelings, and Ron is always there in his solid, comforting way, talking about Auror work and Harry’s exams and Quidditch scores over a pint. Neville and Luna and Dean and Seamus. All the Weasleys, and the friends he’s made in his Healer training.

He has lots of friends he can talk to — and yet their stories over the recent years are so interwoven, it sometimes feels like they know every single detail about each other’s lives. Despite their closeness, somes days it’s as though there is an unbridgeable gap between him and his friends, as if a deep, dark, uncrossable river is running between them, and there are things Harry can never tell them, never talk about with them.

Malfoy though — Malfoy is both comfortingly familiar and excitingly new. Harry knows Malfoy carries his fair share of darkness. They don’t need to talk about the past, the way Harry’s other friends sometimes seem to think they have to. Sometimes, Harry wonders if the tentative friendship he’s building with Malfoy is truly sustainable, rising from such shaky foundations.

And those times, he just dismisses the thought.

We’ll see, he thinks. We’ll just see.

“Do you miss her?” Malfoy’s voice is low and soothing, and Harry knows he’s asking about Ginny. He’s oddly grateful for it. He thinks about his answer before speaking.

“I don’t think so, not really. It’s weird. I miss — the _idea_ of her, you know? I think we both idealised each other, in a way. We idealised the relationship we could have had.” He sighs. “I miss coming home to someone. Waking up next to someone. Being a couple. Those sorts of things. I don’t miss _her_. I don’t even think I loved her for the right reasons.”

It feels quietly liberating to say those things — things he could never tell Ron and Hermione, or his friends who still see Ginny. He loved Ginny — still does — but he realises he loved her like a drowning man loves the lifebuoy thrown at him. She didn’t want to be that for him, and he understands. She shouldn’t. She deserves better.

Harry’s not sure _he_ does.

“Yeah,” Malfoy murmurs in his ear. “I know what you mean.”

 

****

 

**June 2004**

 

Friday nights at the Leaky Cauldron are always a raucous affair. Between the Ministry employees stopping for one last pint before the weekend, the Auror trainees unwinding after a gruelling week, and the travellers crossing to Diagon Alley, Harry wonders how he and Ron managed to get the last two available stools at the bar.

The perks of being Harry Potter, he thinks, even though that kind of special treatment still makes him uncomfortable after all these years. There’s just no getting used to it.

He could have suggested one of the Muggle pubs outside King’s College, where at least they can enjoy some level of anonymity, but Ron prefers the wizarding ale that Tom serves at the Leaky, and Harry didn’t feel like arguing.

“Alright, mate?” Ron asks once he’s done chugging half his pint in one go. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Harry smiles, grateful that Hermione’s working late and isn’t here to be horrified by Ron’s manners. He takes a sip of chilled lager and smacks his lips.

“Yep. One more exam to pass, and I’m free for the summer.”

“Which one is it again?”

“Child Psychology and Mind Healing.”

“Huh,” Ron stares at his pint, eyebrows drawn. “Who’d have thought you’d be studying that, eh? It’s like — you’re an adult, mate. We’re both adults. And I still feel like a bloody teenager sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “I wonder if the feeling ever goes away.”

“Don’t ask Hermione. I think she’s been a grown-up since she was fifteen.”

“Thank fuck for that, or you and I would both be dead by now.”

Ron snorts. “True.” He turns to Harry, and Harry detects the change of mood, how ‘let’s have a serious conversation’ is written all over Ron’s freckled face.

“So,” Ron starts. “It’s been two months since you and Ginny…” he gestures vaguely. “You know.” A pause. “Are you thinking of dating again?”

“Is Ginny already dating again?” Harry asks, and he realises it’s more out of curiosity than jealousy. The last time he saw Ginny, at Molly Weasley’s birthday dinner, they were both very civil to each other, and reiterated their wish to remain friends. Harry has no doubt they will be, in time. Even though they're not there yet.

“No, not that I know of. She said she wanted to take advantage of being single to focus on her career for a while. You know she’s thinking about going into coaching once she’s done playing for the Harpies.”

“Yeah, I know. And me, dating again? I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“End of term exams?”

“Yeah, that, and—” Harry stops himself just before saying, ‘Malfoy’.

Ron catches Harry’s hesitation.

“Is something else going on?”

Harry’s caught off guard.

When Hermione had asked about Malfoy after their encounter at Waterstones, Harry had dismissed the topic by saying he had run into Malfoy a few years back on campus. He hasn’t told anyone about hanging around with Malfoy the past few weeks. Or, now that he thinks about it, that he’s actually spent more time with Malfoy than with his other friends combined.

He even saw him on his birthday — granted, it wasn’t planned, and Harry had no idea that it was Malfoy’s birthday until they were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, watching yellow ducklings chase their mothers across the sun-warmed waters of an artificial lake, and Malfoy had casually brought up the fact that he was having dinner with his Slytherin friends for his birthday. Harry and him had bought coffee to go from a small cart outside the park, and Harry had paid for both their drinks, joking that it was his birthday gift to Malfoy.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told his friends about him yet, but now he feels cowardly, keeping it a secret. He has nothing to be ashamed of. Malfoy’s changed, Harry thinks. And maybe his friends can see it, too.

Harry wills himself to be brave, and tells Ron.

“I’ve reconnected with someone from Hogwarts, too.”

Ron lifts a perplexed eyebrow. “Who?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“No. Way.” Ron almost drops his pint into his lap, his eyes going comically wide. “What do you mean, ‘reconnected’?”

Harry wants to run his hand in his hair, mess it up the way he does when he’s nervous, but he doesn’t want Ron to see that. It would be like an admission of guilt, even though rationally he knows there’s nothing to feel guilty about.

“We’ve run into each other a few times, and now we’re just… hanging around sometimes.”

Now Ron looks suspicious. _Fuck_.

“But Malfoy’s an arsehole. And a—“ Ron lowers his voice, looking around them. Harry knows what he’s going to say. Even after all these years, the words ‘Death Eater’ can still cause a shock when said out loud. Harry nods, showing him he doesn’t need to voice the end of his sentence. “You testified at his fucking _trial_ , for Merlin’s sake.”

“Yes, and he served his time, and I think he’s sorry for what he did during the war. And before. And I’ve done shitty things to him, too.” But even as Harry says the words, he realises he never discussed any of it with Malfoy. Their past enmity. Harry’s testimony at Malfoy’s trial and the mitigating effect it must have had on Malfoy’s final sentence. He doesn’t really know if Malfoy’s repentant about any of it. He could be, his new lifestyle surely seems to prove that he is, but Harry’s not one hundred percent sure.

“Mate,” Ron seems at a loss for words, as if Harry has truly lost the plot.

“He’s changed.” Harry says. “I like him. I think we could be friends.” The admission sounds strange. He’s forgotten that his friends still live with the memories of what Malfoy was at seventeen. Harry is the only one who’s got to see who Malfoy is now. “I think — I think we could _all_ be friends, honestly.”

Ron looks at him, slightly aghast. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

“Yeah, I am.”

Ron grabs his pint, takes a thoughtful swallow out of it. “Fine,” he says when he puts the heavy glass down on the bar. “Sure, we can meet him, if that’s important to you.”

Flooded with inexplicable relief, Harry lets out a shocked breath. His heart swells with fondness for his friend. Ron’s dislike of Malfoy had rivalled Harry’s, back in their Hogwarts days. Harry knows Ron has never been entirely convinced that Malfoy’s hand was forced in the events of Sixth Year. That Malfoy deliberately didn’t identify Harry, that fateful night at the Manor.

For him to put all that aside and accept Malfoy as a potential friend of Harry’s — well. Harry doesn’t think he deserves his friend sometimes.

“Okay,” he nods. “Maybe I’ll bring him with me sometime.”

“If you must,” Ron gives a theatrical shudder, and Harry laughs, elbowing him in the ribs.


	4. Chapter 4

_**You changed all the lead sleeping in my head to gold**_  
**Arcade Fire,** _ **Neighborhood #1**_

 

**July 2004**

 

Summer has settled over London, humid and stuffy. In between rain showers, the sun bakes the pavement, making the entire city smell of warm asphalt and rotting rubbish.

“I like it,” Malfoy says when Harry complains about it. They’re walking along the Thames, neither of them having anywhere to be for hours, neither of them having made any plans. It’s one of the few free days they have in common. Harry has passed his exams brilliantly — turns out that he can be top of his class when he has an actual interest in the field — and he’s volunteering at St Mungo’s four days a week until the start of his residency. Malfoy is busy with work: he’s in the team that covers international Muggle politics; and it’s a never-ending source of bewilderment for Harry that Malfoy understands Muggle politics, let alone analyses it and writes about it for a living. Right now it’s all hands on deck with the upcoming presidential election in the States.

“I thought you grew up in the country. How fast did you get used to the stench of London?”

“Potter, the depths of your coarseness will never cease to amaze me. I went from the middle of nowhere to one of the main centres of Western culture, and you’re asking me if the sight of a few spilling rubbish bags bothers me?”

Harry smiles. It’s a beautiful day, and he wants Draco to talk to him. And if he can’t exactly pinpoint the moment when he started calling Malfoy Draco in his head, and can’t explain why the thought gives him butterflies, well. Nobody needs to know.

“Is there anything you miss? From the wizarding world, I mean.”

Draco furrows his brow a bit and Harry wonders if he’s going to shut him out, the way he sometimes does when the conversation makes him uncomfortable. But he actually looks like he’s giving Harry’s question some thought, and he answers.

“I miss — walking around the Wizarding Quarter in London. There’s this special atmosphere, you know? Like it’s Christmas day, all year round?” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. The short blond strands stand on end in some places, and Harry likes the way it makes Draco look younger, softer. Draco hesitates, then continues. “Of course, I haven’t really been there since — since after the war. So I don’t know if it would still be the case or if it’s just remaining childhood memories.”

Harry studies him for a while out of the corner of his eye. “It is like that, still. A little bit.”

“And — and I miss being around witches and wizards, a little bit, too.” Draco worries his bottom lip between his white teeth, as if the admission costs him more than he wants to show. “I love my Muggle friends. But even after all these years I always worry about letting my guard down, letting something slip. As though there’s always a risk of outing myself as a wizard any minute.”

They walk side by side for a moment longer, the summer sun blinding against the wet pavement and the ripples on the Thames. Harry lets Draco’s words sink in, and doesn’t know what to say. He’s thought about leaving the wizarding world so many times before, and he’s never done it, precisely for the reason that Draco has just given him. Magic is in his blood now; he could not imagine a life where he has to hide such a significant part of who he is. But he understands where Draco comes from, he thinks. If fame and his status as the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World can often feel like a heavy burden to carry around, he cannot imagine how it would be for Draco, ex-Death Eater, reformed or not.

And speaking of other witches and wizards... Ron’s words from their last meeting at the Leaky have echoed in Harry’s mind for a few days now, and he wants to ask Draco. He really does.

“It’s my birthday soon, you know. July 31st?”

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, how could I forget. Haven’t they made it a bank holiday already?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Thank Merlin, no. But I’m meeting with a few friends at the pub that day and... I was wondering if you’d like to join us.”

Draco stops abruptly. The look on his face is calculating, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re serious, aren’t you. You’re really inviting me to meet your friends.”

“Well,” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “You already know them. So it’s not like you’d be _meeting_ anyone new.”

It’s hard to tell under the bright midday light, but Harry thinks Draco pales a little at that.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. So who would that be? I’m guessing Granger, Weasley… Longbottom?”

“Yes, probably Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, too. And you remember Lee Jordan?”

“So you’re suggesting a night out with Gryffindors, basically.”

“Luna Lovegood will be there, too.”

“Ah, thank Merlin. There will be a Ravenclaw as well. Are you telling me I’m your token Slytherin friend, then?”

Harry looks at him now, too. Draco’s eyes are surrealistically pale in the summer sun, his cheeks just slightly flushed from the heat.

He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt tightly buttoned at the wrists, and Harry just doesn’t let himself think about why he never sees Draco in anything other than long-sleeved shirts and jumpers.

“Are we friends, then?” Harry asks, almost challenging.

Draco studies him for a second, and it’s like the city noises hush around them, and Harry can’t hear anything other than his own breath in his ears.

Then Draco nods carefully. “I think we are.”

A slow smile spreads on Harry’s face, and Draco looks just as relieved. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

Draco hesitates then, and asks: “If we’re friends, shouldn’t you call me by my given name? Last names make me feel like we're still teenagers. Maybe we’re growing out of that.”

“I’d like that,” Harry smiles. “Draco,” he adds. The name that he’s been playing in his mind for weeks now sounds strange when said out loud, but Harry thinks he can get used to it.

Yes, it’ll be nice to get used to it.

“Alright, then. _Harry_.” Draco gives him a small smirk, and Harry exhales.

“And you can bring some of your friends to the pub, too. If it makes you more comfortable. Parkinson and Zabini, maybe?”

“Brilliant. I shall ask them.”

Draco starts walking again and Harry follows him, taking in the sight of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament ahead of them.

Breathing in the marsh-like smell of the Thames, and just underneath, the almost imperceptible, clean, fresh, sun-warmed scent that he’s come to associate with Draco.

 

****

 

“Harry!”

Most of his friends are already in a corner booth when Harry walks inside Waxy O’Connor's, Draco in tow. From Ron’s and Neville’s bright eyes, he can tell they’re already quite drunk. The others are smiling a little too brightly, and Harry suspects they’ve made valiant attempts at keeping up with Ron and Neville, booze-wise.

Draco follows him, his rigid back betraying his wariness. He hasn’t really talked about tonight with Harry ever since Harry asked him to come. Draco has avoided contact with the wizarding world ever since the war, and even though the pub is one hundred percent Muggle, it must be stressful for him to see witches and wizards again, most of whom probably still bear some level of grudge against him.

It only makes Harry appreciate Draco’s presence tonight more. Harry is the only person Draco would do that for, and he can’t help feeling pretty chuffed about it.

“Harry!”, Ron yells in Harry’s ear when they’re within hugging distance from their table. Ron nearly falls over Harry in his attempt at wrapping his friend in a clumsy, drunken hug. Harry pushes him back gently with a laugh. Ron is the ‘expressive display of affection’ kind of drunk, and tonight is no exception. Neville sits in one of the chairs, giggling idly; Hermione and Luna are looking up at him, their smiles a tad wider than when they’re completely sober; Dean has a possessive arm around Seamus’s shoulders, and the both of them are so deep in Quidditch talk with Lee that they don’t notice Harry’s arrival despite the hoots of joy coming from their other friends.

Ron scoots to the left and pats the available space left on the seat. “Sit!” he enjoins. “Birthday boy!!!” he adds, lifting his pint and sloshing beer over Hermione’s arm. She makes a half-amused, half-annoyed sound and swats Ron on the thigh.

Laughing, Harry takes a seat, and Draco is left standing, three pairs of Gryffindor eyes trained on him. Luna, the one Ravenclaw, looks up at him mildly and waves. “Hi Draco.”

To Harry’s surprise, Draco leans over and kisses her cheek. “Hello, Luna.”

“We’re cousins,” Luna shrugs in way of an explanation. “Didn’t you know?”

Harry shakes his head as Draco holds out his hand to Ron and Hermione. Hermione is the first to sit up and wrap her fingers around Draco’s, giving him a quick handshake.

“Hello, Draco. Nice to see you again.”

Her tone is guarded, and Harry remembers the shuttered look she'd given him when he had told her Draco would be coming tonight — along with his Slytherin friends. _It’s your birthday, Harry_ , she’d said, her tone dripping with judgement. _You’re free to invite whomever you like._

Ron and Neville shake Draco’s hand in turn, and it must be the most surreal thing Harry’s seen in recent memory.

And then Draco sits down next to Harry, the left side of his body pressed against Harry’s right for lack of space around the table. Draco lets his gaze roam the cavernous wood-paneled room around them, the dim light bringing out the sharp planes of his face. Harry holds his breath a little bit, partly because he’s still worried about his friends’ reactions to Draco, and partly because Draco is warm and strong and solid against him and it makes him slightly giddy, even though he hasn’t had anything to drink yet.

“There’s a fucking tree in this pub,” Draco stage-whispers to him and Harry exhales a laugh.

“I know, and there’s bloody good beer. Shall I get you one?”

“Stay put, Potter. It’s your birthday, you’re not paying for anything.”

With a small smile Harry’s way, Draco stands and strides to the bar. Harry’s eyes follow him, and he notes the way his gait is already more relaxed, his back slouched in its usual, casually attractive way.

The first few minutes of him mixing with Harry’s old friends went well, and Harry can tell Draco is already more comfortable than he was when they walked into the pub.

Two familiar faces approach the table while Draco is at the bar, and Harry startles slightly when he recognizes them: Parkinson and Zabini.

Parkinson almost hasn’t changed. Her face is thinner now, the dark circles around her eyes more pronounced, but she still wears her dark hair in a bob and her full mouth is painted a matt, bright red. She looks very stylish, if somewhat intimidating, in a lacey black top and a black leather skirt.

Zabini is more of a surprise. Harry remembers him as that lanky teenager from school, black hair cropped in a short buzz cut, dark eyes still sporting the wide quality of childhood. Zabini has filled out since their Hogwarts days, his shoulders wide and muscular, his jaw squarer, his cheekbones taut under brown skin, his hair falling around his face in soft curls.

He’s very good-looking, and Harry finds himself smiling.

“Happy birthday, Potter,” Parkinson has to speak loudly to be heard over the hustle. Harry gets a peek of her plump cleavage as she leans over to shake his hand. She’s followed by Zabini, whose hand is large and warm, and then the both of them just wave at the rest of the table. Everyone is eyeing them warily, as if gauging how the evening will go from here on.

As the two Slytherins remain standing behind Neville and Luna, shuffling from one foot to the other, Harry tells them:

“Draco is at the bar, he’s getting us both a pint. Would you like anything?”

“ _Beer_ , Potter?” Parkinson’s red lips stretch in a predatory smile. “What about _shots_?”

 

****

 

Harry is feeling pleasantly buzzed and leans his head on Hermione’s shoulder. She pats him gently on the shoulder and returns to her conversation with Draco.

Harry was surprised when the two of them sat opposite each other at the table and started a conversation about Muggle politics.

At first, Hermione had looked extremely bewildered, listening to Draco discuss the highlights of the US electoral campaign in more detail than a Muggle Political Science major, but then she got over it and jumped into the exchange in earnest. After all, as Associate Director of the Muggle-Wizarding Relations department at the Ministry, she could hold her side of the political conversation. When she had told Draco what she was doing for a living, he had shaken his head in disbelieving envy, murmuring something about a dream job, and Hermione had considerably warmed up to him afterwards.

Harry suspects it will take more than one evening for Hermione to forgive Draco, let alone like him, but Harry loves her for being so civil for his sake — and also for being so passionate about the interests she shares with Draco that she’ll forget about their past if it means she can get the last word in the conversation.  
He listens to Hermione whinge about her coworkers — apparently, the only requirement to be hired in the Muggle-Wizarding Relations department is to have a NEWT in Muggle Studies, and none of Hermione’s colleagues are Muggleborn, which makes the department bloody inefficient if she’s to be believed.

Hermione has great ambitions for her field, Harry knows. She says it’s the future of wizarding kind to be more open and aware of the world outside their own, and the status quo frustrates her. _Hasn’t the war changed anything?_ She’s complained repeatedly to a supportive Harry and a sympathetic Ron. But Harry’s political awareness is limited — definitely not his strong suit, as he happily reminds himself every time Hermione tells him about her Ministry job — and he’s glad that Draco knows about Muggle affairs and that he can actively contribute to a conversation with Hermione.

The seat dips on Harry’s other side, and Ron’s there, pulling him into a rough hug and breathing tequila in his face.  
“Happy birthday, mate.” He slides four more shots in front of them. “Let’s get properly sloshed.”

“‘Cause you’re not drunk enough yet?” Harry laughs.

“Harry,” Ron declares, a hand pressed flat on his chest, “you’re asking me to put up with Slytherins for a night, I need to put myself in the right mood, which is to say not remember a single fucking thing about it tomorrow.”

Speaking of Slytherins, Zabini has been relatively relaxed, and has joined the conversation about Quidditch pretty quickly. But Parkinson has thrown wary, almost worried glances Harry’s way all evening, as if he might hex her if she lets her guard down.

If he’s honest with himself, Harry isn’t really angry with her anymore. He’s had so much time to think about that night, when Parkinson had stood up in front of the school and asked that Harry surrendered to Voldemort.

The night he had died.

He thinks he’s learnt a thing or two about the lengths someone can go to, to protect one’s friends and family. He’s no longer sure that he wouldn’t have asked for one person’s sacrifice in order to save hundred others, the way Parkinson had done the night of the Battle. It must have taken some form of bravery to go against the whole school like that.

In the end, he had gone to meet his end himself anyway. And maybe if he had gone to his fate sooner, many of his friends and schoolmates would still be alive.

But it’s his birthday tonight. He’s surrounded by his friends, the old and the new, he’s pleasantly buzzed, and he desperately wants to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

And so he does.

“The Slytherins? They’re not so bad,” he smiles wryly, and when Draco meets his eyes across the table, he feels bold and winks at him.

 

****

 

“You know,” Harry slurs against Ron’s shoulder, “I think I might be a little drunk.”

“Mate, I’m ferpectly —” Ron is interrupted by a hiccough, “ — _ferpectly_ fine. Whoever thought about shots — is brill.”

Harry frowns, then remembers. “T'was Parkinson, mate,” he reminds Ron.

“Those Slytherins — they might be arseholes still — just a little bit — but they sure know how to party.”

Harry eyes Parkinson and Zabini, who seem to have found common conversational ground with Lee and Neville, judging by their animated discussion. The only way he can tell they’ve have just as much to drink as Harry is by their slightly uncoordinated hand gestures.

“Zabini looks good now, doesn’t he?” Harry muses.

“How would I know, mate? It’s not like I think about blokes that way,” Ron mumbles.

His friend’s slightly slurred words are like a cold slap in the face for Harry, and he suddenly feels painfully sober.

He’s been eyeing Blaise’s wide shoulders for the best part of the last hour, his hands itching to know what they must feel like under the taut cotton of Blaise’s black t-shirt.

Not that Parkinson’s tits, snuggly pushed up in her lacey shirt, don’t make his mouth water either. Fuck, he’s randy. He hasn’t had sex in months, and clearly, wanking isn’t enough anymore. Harry needs to get back out there, needs to find a date. Or at least someone willing to go for a one-night stand.

And if he’s perfectly honest with himself, all that staring at Zabini and Parkinson might just have been a way to distract himself from thoughts of how good Draco looks in his dark green shirt and tight jeans, his pale hair tousled, his grey eyes shining from the one too many drinks he’s had.

Forget about Zabini. Draco is by far the hottest man at the table.

Fuck it, he’s probably the hottest man in the whole bloody pub tonight.

Thinking of men that way scares him, and he especially doesn’t want to think this way about Draco. Harry’s twenty-four and Draco is the first new friend he’s made in years, and the only one who doesn’t seem to have expectations from him. Who doesn’t look at him as if he could fall apart any minute. Who doesn’t treat him like the bloody Chosen One.

Harry likes that. He treasures it. He doesn’t want to lose it, even though his friendship with Draco is just at its budding beginning.

And maybe because it's his birthday, or maybe because of the way his stomach backflips when Draco meets his eyes and smiles, all soft and open after his pint and his two shots of tequila, but Harry can’t deny it anymore.

There’s something.

There’s something in the way his eyes always linger on attractive men, the way he notices that they’re attractive, even  when Ron would not think twice about it — and it must mean something, mustn’t it?

Harry’s twenty-fucking-four years old, and he finally admits to himself that he’s probably not as straight as he thought.

The realisation chills his insides, and thrills him with the possibilities.

 _Happy birthday to me,_ he thinks, and allows himself a slow, slow smile.

 

****

 

**August 2004**

 

“This looks like something Teddy could have made.”

Harry squints at the large painting, ridges of dried, shockingly yellow paint traveling in uneven lines from one side of the canvas to the other.

Draco hides a smile under the pretense of rubbing at his jaw, and rolls his eyes dramatically.

“You know you’re not supposed to say that, do you? That’s how one can tell people who don’t know the first thing about contemporary art.”

“Well, I don’t know the first thing about contemporary art. Am I allowed to say it then?”

Draco studies him with a half-smile. “I guess you can, you bloody peasant.”

Harry’s gaze circles the exhibition room. Draco brought him to an art gallery just off Portobello Road today, saying he had promised his friend Aissa he would go have a look. Apparently the artist is one of Aissa’s friends, and the more people are seen walking around the gallery, the more buyers will be interested in coming inside.

Harry questions the logic of what feels like wishful thinking on the artist’s part; they’re the only ones here. The young assistant who welcomed them has disappeared in the back to make phone calls about an upcoming vernissage.

Harry wonders how much longer he will have to pretend to stare at the art. A few other disturbingly bright paintings hang on the white walls, and a couple of sculptures that resemble bronze Flobberworms having an orgy are scattered around the room, perched on white blocks.

“I don’t know why you even bother bringing me to these things,” Harry sighs.

Draco shrugs. “To try to chip away at your lack of culture, but I should perhaps recognise a losing battle.”

Harry’s gaze falls back to Draco, who is bloody more interesting to look at than the artwork, his long-sleeved grey t-shirt and dark blue jeans accentuating the leanness of his long body. Harry was surprised to see white trainers at his feet, albeit ten times cleaner than Harry’s tattered checkered Vans.

All in all, these days Draco looks like a giant _fuck you_ to the traditionalist pureblood lifestyle he had embodied when he was at Hogwarts, and Harry can’t help but think it suits him very well indeed.

Draco catches his eye, and Harry quickly looks away, feeling his cheeks turn pink.

Draco’s steps echo in the mostly empty room, and he’s closer to Harry when he asks:

“Do you have any plans for tonight? There’s that new film I wanted to see. With Natalie Portman. She’s not French, but I think you’ll like her anyway.”

“Sorry, I can’t. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Why not tonight?” Draco smirks, not unkindly. “Have you got a hot date or something?”

Harry looks up at Draco. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” He folds his arms over his chest. He looks a bit unsure. “I didn’t know you’d started dating again. Good for you, getting back out there.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, which is probably a fucking disaster by now. He lets out an awkward laugh.

“Yeah. It’s about time, right? It’s been a few months since Ginny.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

Draco’s grey eyes are fixed on him, and Harry thinks it’s weird, having this conversation with Draco Malfoy of all people. Even if he knew it was coming, and even if he’s braced himself for it.

Even if, deep down, he wants to have it.

Because that’s the thing. Ever since he’s agreed to this date, he’s been thinking about how he would tell his friends about it. How he would tell Draco. And he hasn’t told anyone yet, not Ron, not even Hermione.

For some reason, he wants Draco to be the first one he tells. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t want to dwell on the reason for too long. He just knows that’s what his gut is telling him to do.

“Ah — it’s not a lady.”

He fixes his gaze on Draco, shoving his hands in his pockets. Draco’s eyes are steady on his, and Harry sees the flicker of understanding when the information registers in Draco’s brain. Despite the horrible awkwardness of the moment, he takes a wicked sort of satisfaction watching Draco struggle to keep his expression neutral.

“It’s a bloke,” he adds redundantly.

Draco stares at him some more, then he looks like he’s forcing on a smile. “Harry,” he sounds a little bit stunned. “You never told me.”

Harry lifts a shoulder, but he knows Draco sees right through his casual shrug. The moment is significant, and Harry suspects it’s not only significant for him.

“To be perfectly honest with you, it’s rather news to me, too.”

“So you had that —” Draco gestures vaguely, “— that _gay epiphany_... recently?”

“Yeah. And the thing is — I don’t think I’m that.” He forces himself to say it. “ _Gay_. I don’t think I’m gay. I like girls. A lot. I just realised — I like blokes, too. The same way.”

“Okay,” Draco has a careful look on his face, like he doesn’t want to say anything that will offend Harry, or send him running for the door. Harry is deeply grateful for it. “Are you saying you’re bisexual?”

“I don’t know what I am. I haven’t given it that much thought yet. Bisexual, maybe, yeah. It’s just that, the other day, I was queueing at that coffee shop, yeah? And there were quite a few people in front of me and I started chatting with this bloke, and he was really — nice. Funny, and rather good-looking. And I know — I _know_ that’s not something I would be thinking about a man if I was a hundred percent straight. But lately I realised I’ve always had those kind of thoughts, and never understood what they meant. I don’t know, maybe I was scared. Maybe it didn’t matter because I was with Ginny at the time. Maybe I was too deep into my relationship with her to take the time to analyse them.” Harry sighs. “And so, when he asked for my number, I thought, fuck it, and I gave it to him.”

“And now you’re going on a date with him.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and it comes out a bit sheepish.

Draco studies him, his grey eyes serious. “Harry. Have you told anyone else?”

Harry looks him straight on. Might as well be honest.

“You’re the first one I’ve told.”

“Are you going to tell your other friends?”

“Yeah, eventually. But I wanted you to be the first one I told.”

Draco swallows. He looks oddly moved.

“Thank you.”

The gallery is so quiet, Harry can almost hear Draco’s breath. The rumble of cars outside is the only sound anchoring the moment in reality.

Harry is touched by Draco’s gentleness, and he realises he’s come to expect it from him. Underneath Draco’s sharp edges, he knows he can find the support of a friend, and he feels a great, unbidden rush of affection for him.

“So,” Draco clears his throat, shattering the loaded silence. “What are you going to wear on your big date?”

Harry looks down at his old Manic Street Preachers t-shirt and faded jeans. “Is this okay?”

Draco lets out a derisive bark. “The answer to this question is _never_ yes, Potter.”

Harry drops his arms, defeated. “Will you help me? I’m useless at this.”

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Only if you spill the details once you’re done losing your boy-virginity.”

“My boy-virginity?” Harry laughs. “But then you will have to tell me all about how you’ve lost yours.”

“Oh God, us exchanging stories about our first shags like a couple of fifth-year Hufflepuff girls.” Draco pretends to gag. “No fucking way. Forget I said anything." 

He gestures for Harry to follow him. "Come on, you’re so hopeless, it’s going to take all afternoon to find you clothes that don’t make you look like you’ve rolled out of a rubbish tip.”

And as he and Draco walk out of the gallery and into the sunshine-drenched street, Harry has the distinct feeling that life, astonishingly, keeps getting better and better.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Cornered, the boy kicked out at the world,  
** **The world kicked back a lot fucking harder**_  
**The Libertines, _Can’t Stand Me Now_**

 

**January 2005**

 

If Harry thought his Healer training years were a lot of work, the brutal first months of his Pediatrics residency make training look like a fucking walk in the park. But the hours spent striding the corridors of St Mungo’s, and the twelve-hours shifts that somehow always seem to last double the time, are nothing compared to his enthusiasm for the job.

For the first time in his life, Harry feels like he’s found his place, his purpose, and the days when he thought he would be happy being an Auror, living with Ginny and eventually marrying her fade into a distant memory. Despite his almost-constant state of exhaustion, he loves checking in on his little patients, disentangling tiny fingers from his hair or the hems of his white robes and letting them try his stethoscope on. The kids are always so happy to see Healer Potter, and he suspects it’s not at all because he’s famous. With children, he can just be a Healer; he doesn’t have to be _the_ _Chosen One_ , because the vast majority of his patients weren’t even born when the wizarding world was at war, and anyway, kids don’t seem to care about that kind of stuff. He’s actually good at his job, and he’s good with the kids, and that’s a revelation he didn’t expect to have this late in his twenties.

Another revelation he didn't expect to have this late in life is sex. It’s bloody brilliant, and Harry wonders why he’s let himself miss out on fantastic sex for years. Not that sex with Ginny was bad; but he realises now that they’d never moved past the way they’d done it as teenagers — quick and frantic and a bit clumsy, a fast orgasm the main goal of it.

David, his new date, is two years older than Harry and twice as experienced as him. Sometimes, when David is plowing into him, their bodies tangled in David’s bedsheets, or when Harry is bending him over the breakfast table for a quick fuck before work, Harry thinks he could have gone his entire life having sex like a teenager without realising it, had he stayed with Ginny, their shagging fading into a routine until the drive to shag disappeared completely.

Now sex makes him feel like an adult, and he throws himself into it, eager to catch up fast with his more experienced lover. 

Harry doesn’t end up telling Draco about how he loses his so-called boy-virginity, and Draco never presses the subject.

Despite their schedules getting increasingly hard to navigate, Harry and Draco keep hanging out, their lives intertwining without Harry realising at first. Draco comes to more and more of Harry’s friends' pub nights, Blaise joining them every once in a while, and Pansy coming along whenever she happens to be in London — Harry finds out she lives in Paris now, consulting for a fashion firm, which explains her edgy, and sometimes bewildering, outfits.

Harry’s friends seem to warm up to Draco, even though Harry feels like there’s still a lot left unsaid. But he doesn’t want to prod at their shared pasts, so he leaves it be.

His friends also meet David, and they’re all nice and polite to him. They’d been wonderful when Harry had finally come out to them as bisexual — only to his private group of close friends, and thank god he trusts them all enough not to sell the story to the _Daily Prophet —_ and it had made him feel loved, and incredibly grateful for the people in his life.

Draco continues to take Harry to art galleries and films, and Harry brings him to pubs where young bands are playing live music. He tells Draco about the new bars and restaurants popping up in the Wizarding Quarter of London, the streets around Diagon Alley changing, thrumming with younger, brighter life. Harry knows it’s been years since Draco has set foot in Diagon Alley, but when he asks him if he’d like to try some of the new places with Harry and his friends, Draco just shakes his head, smiling wistfully.

Harry also meets Draco’s Muggle friends. Lisa is a music columnist at _NME_ that Draco befriended when they were both interning at _The Times_. She’s a vivacious girl with long brown curls, round black-framed glasses and cheeks that dimple when she smiles. Aissa, a tall girl with multicoloured braids falling down to her shoulder blades and a faint Senegalese accent, works at a vintage clothing shop a few streets down from Lisa’s flat in Camden. Sean, a short, round guy that Draco supposedly met on Trafalgar Square when Sean had stopped him, asking him if he had a minute to talk about the environment, is a barista in one of the Starbucks that are popping up like mushrooms all around London and volunteers for Greenpeace in his free time. Harry doesn’t want to know if Draco’s ever slept with him.

On a Thursday night, when Harry’s shift ends at St Mungo’s and he has the next day free, Draco invites him over to Lisa’s flat. They end up lounging in a circle at the foot of Lisa’s sofa, Radiohead’s _Amnesiac_ playing on her stereo. Draco had once told Harry that music was what had genuinely and quite radically changed his mind about Muggle culture. _There is no way a culture that can produce such amazing art and music can be considered inferior_ , he had said. It was one of the few times Draco had been open about his change of mind regarding his old bigoted views. _To think I’ve spent my childhood listening to The Weird Sisters when I could have been listening to Queen and The Smiths instead. What a fucking waste of time,_ he'd sneered, and Harry had laughed, light and relieved.

Lisa has her head on Draco’s shoulder and Draco plays with a lock of her hair; Aissa cradles a bottle of beer between her long fingers, and Sean, eyes closed, leans back on his elbows. And Harry... Harry feels his gaze constantly drawn to Draco, who gives him a lazy smile every time their eyes meet. At some point, someone lights up a marijuana cigarette, and the joint passes around the circle. Draco takes a long drag of it, his eyelids fluttering shut, his head falling back onto the sofa cushions, blond hair spreading across the dark fabric, long neck exposed. The joint hangs from between Draco’s lips, and Harry’s never been more jealous of a cigarette before. Draco hands him the joint over, his slightly glassy eyes closing again once Harry takes it, and Harry takes a hit too, letting it cloud his thoughts, listening to Thom Yorke singing about how you forget so easily.

At the end of October, Harry's boyfriend David travels to Madrid for an assignment for the bank he works at, while Draco leaves London for two weeks and goes to Washington to cover the upcoming U.S. election with his team.

He texts Harry a few times, about little American things that he thinks Harry will find funny — he does — and Harry texts back, telling him London is the same as usual, that he’s not missing out on anything, and to have fun with the Americans.

After a week, Harry realises he misses Draco’s company more than he misses David. He breaks things off with David when he gets back. The row is awful, but Harry feels better afterwards.

In November, Harry hosts a little gathering at his flat to belatedly celebrate Hermione’s twenty-fifth birthday. His usual group of friends is here, mainly Gryffindors, and Luna, who’s now moved in with Neville.

Bowie hides under the sofa, silver tail swishing from underneath it, until Draco arrives.

“Here, kitty kitty,” Draco says as he goes to sit in the chesterfield, waggling his fingers in Bowie’s direction. A pair of mismatched eyes gleam from under the sofa, and a second later the Kneazle slips out from his hiding place and settles on Draco’s lap, purring like a little motor.

“My Kneazle likes you better than me,” Harry jokes.

“That little bugger has good taste,” Draco smirks proudly, scratching Bowie between the ears.

That evening, Draco sits at a corner of the chesterfield, the one Harry prefers, and Hermione sits next to him. From where Harry stands by the fireplace, talking with Dean about the latest epidemic of Blubberpox that has filled St Mungo’s Children’s Ward with crying, itching little patients, he watches Draco and Hermione talk animatedly. But there’s an inordinate tension between them, Hermione frowning, Draco paler than usual.

They both stand and leave the room, going god knows where, and Harry tries not to worry about it. About half an hour later, when he walks to the kitchen to refill everyone’s drinks, he hears murmurs coming from behind the half-closed door of his small study. The sight that welcomes him when he opens the door leaves him dumbstruck. Hermione and Draco are locked in an embrace, Draco’s cheek pressed against the top of Hermione’s curly head, both of them swaying gently where they stand.

They look up and let go of each other at the sound of Harry’s footsteps. Hermione gives him a small, almost apologetic smile, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy; she rubs at her wet cheeks and strides out of the room, brushing past Harry. Draco looks at him for a moment, his eyes too shiny, then he nods and follows Hermione on her way out.

When Harry comes back to the sitting room afterwards, everything looks exactly as he’s left it, Ron finishing up his glass of Firewhisky, Neville and Luna cuddling on an armchair, Seamus and Dean playing a game of Exploding Snap and giggling like a bunch of drunken teenagers, Lee destroying the leftovers of Hermione’s chocolate birthday cake with the help of an excited Bowie playing with the vanilla icing.

Hermione and Draco are back on the couch, sitting silently side by side. They look as though a huge weight has been lifted from their shoulders, and Harry feels a great rush of affection for them both. He doesn’t need to ask them what their argument — and subsequent reconciliation — was about. From the corner of the room, Ron seems to have noticed as well and lifts an enquiring eyebrow at Harry, who just smiles. Something in Hermione and Draco's relaxed stances tells him all his friends are going to be alright.

And deep down, Harry is just a little bit jealous that he hasn’t yet had that kind of moment with Draco.

At Christmas, Harry goes back to the Burrow for the first time in months. He hasn’t seen her since Molly Weasley’s birthday, where he and Ginny had barely said more than hello and goodbye.

But this time she hugs him tight, telling him she missed him, then proceeds to tease him about his hair like she used to when they were together. Harry realises they were friends, not lovers, at the end of their relationship.

He playfully pulls at her long ponytail, and it’s almost as if things are back to the way they were in fifth year.

At dinner, Ron raises his glass to announce that Hermione’s been promoted to Director of her department, her boss having decided to pursue a career in politics, and they all clink their glasses to congratulate her, with cheerful cries of “To the bright future of Muggle-Wizarding Relations!”.

Hermione confides in Harry that her new role will consist in even closer cooperation with the Muggle Prime Minister’s office. It allows her to reorganise the team a bit, and she hopes she can soon hire people who have actual experience with the Muggle world.

Harry thinks he knows just the right person, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t know why. It’s Christmas, and he’s with his adoptive family, and things with Ginny are probably not going to be terrible, and his life has turned out more okay than he expected. He wonders what Draco’s doing for Christmas, whether he’s visiting his mother at the Manor, or if he’s spending the evening with his Muggle friends. It’s weird not to be around him in those happy moments, and it’s almost like he misses him.

Almost.

When Harry Apparates on the front steps of his building after Christmas dinner, he finds a small parcel wrapped in silver and green paper waiting for him, trapped under an Impervius charm.

He opens it to find a CD and a note, written in the elegant scroll of Draco Malfoy. _Happy Christmas_ , it says. _Here’s something I found for you when I was in the States, because clearly I’m a fool who still thinks your artistic education is perfectible instead of utterly hopeless. See you soon? DM._

The CD is from a new band called Arcade Fire, and Harry listens to it on repeat for days.

****

It’s a particularly bleak, cold day at the end of January, icy sleet coating the street of London, and Harry and Hermione have met for a quick bite at the Chinese Muggle restaurant halfway between St Mungo’s and the Ministry. They try to do it twice a month, and Ron sometimes joins them when he’s not out in the field with his Auror team.

Today, Ron is unavailable, so it’s only Harry and Hermione, for which he’s grateful. For the past twenty minutes, Hermione has whinged about the poor quality of the CVs she’s received since she started posting job listings in various wizarding newspapers to recruit her new team. The candidates she’s seen either come for pureblood wizarding families and believe they know Muggle politics just because they took a Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts, or they are Muggleborn and think that having grown up as Muggles makes them automatically equipped for the job.

Hermione drops her head in her hands, sounding exhausted. “You would not _believe_ the time I’ve wasted, Harry. I’m fine with hiring someone fresh out of Hogwarts for a junior position. That’s not a problem. I can train them. But that’s not going to be the entirety of the team, you know? Why is it so hard to find someone who's experienced and who’s not going to need my constant hand-holding? I swear, I’d have an easier time finding a unicorn in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.”

For some weird reason, the image of a unicorn brings Draco to Harry’s mind.

“You should give the job to Draco,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

He’s been thinking about asking Hermione for weeks now — ever since Ron announced her promotion over Christmas dinner. He knows it’s Draco’s dream job — combining the wizard side of him with his first-hand experience of the Muggle world. He can tell Draco misses the wizarding world terribly, even though he’s trying his best to hide his longing whenever Harry tells him anything about it. But Draco would be too proud to ask Hermione... or so Harry thinks.

He’s not entirely certain, actually, how Draco would react if he knew what Harry’s asking of Hermione.

Hermione looks doubtful, too.

“Did Draco mention anything to you? Any interest in my department?”

“Er. Not directly, but — Hermione. Honestly, where would you find a better candidate?”

“It’s true,” she still sounds thoughtful. “I just don’t know... if this could work.”

Something in the way she hesitates gives Harry pause. He grips the end of the table. He wills himself to stay calm, but he feels oddly angry that Hermione doesn’t think it’s a brilliant idea right away.

“Is it because — is it because of what he’s done? In the past?” His eyes narrow at her. “You know he’s served his time, right? He’s _reformed_.”

“I know that, Harry,” she lifts her chin defiantly. “But do _you_?”

Harry’s taken aback. “Of course I do. What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you two ever talked about it? You used to hate him, remember? And you and him have done some pretty terrible things to each other. Let alone what Draco’s done on his own. You’ve been friends for months now, and I don’t think you ever found the courage to broach the topic with him. And it’s a pretty big Erumpent in the room that you’re not addressing, Harry. How is that healthy?” She extends her hand, covers his hand with hers. Her tone becomes more careful, concerned. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Harry says, reluctantly. “No, you’re not. I just—” He looks down at his plate. “I just don’t know if I should talk to him about it. I rather like him these days. I don’t want to — to stir all that old shit again.”

“But, Harry... I think you need to. Otherwise it will just blow up in your face someday when it’s too late to fix it. This is just the beginning. If you can’t talk about it now... if you can’t get past it... what kind of foundation is it for a friendship?”

Harry hates when Hermione’s so painfully right. He looks away from her, out of the window. A string of black cabs drive past, and he sighs.

Hermione’s hand squeezes his.

“Harry,” she hesitates. “Are you and Draco — is there anything else going on between you two?”

Harry’s head snaps back at her. “No! Of course not.” _Shit_. He sounds defensive, and Hermione lifts an eyebrow. “Look. Yeah, okay. I like the way he looks. He’s rather fit, isn’t he? Who would have thought I'd ever say _that_ , back in school?”

Hermione chuckles, and Harry’s encouraged to continue. “But I don’t _like_ him that way. We’re just friends, you know? I really like that. I like having him as a friend. He’s interesting, and funny, and he knows all these really cool Muggle things that he’s showing me, and I like the person he is now. I like spending time with him. I like that there are still new things to learn about him.” He lifts his gaze to Hermione, a bit sheepishly. “Do you think I’m weird?”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head and smiles reassuringly. “You and I and the others... we’ve been friends since we were children. It’s nice making a new friend later in life, too. So no, Harry, I don’t think you’re weird."

“So, why not offer him the job, then?”

“Look. I could ask him, but I’d rather he come to me. I hate to assume, and that’s the kind of thing I imagine Draco would be prickly about.”

That’s highly possible, Harry thinks. “Maybe we can tell him about it this weekend.” They’re having drinks at Harry’s place before going out for their weekly pub crawl, and Harry could ask Draco to join them.

“Yeah, okay,” Hermione says. “I hope he says yes, now. Because suggesting Draco… you’ve just raised the bar too bloody high for any other potential candidate.”

Harry laughs, and returns to his forgotten shrimp fried rice.

  
****

 

Harry scrambles to his feet when the doorbell rings. He’s been feeling on edge all day, thinking about how he can broach the topic of the Muggle Relations job to Draco, and he still hasn’t  decided on a course of action. Ron shoots him a curious glance when he mumbles, ‘Draco’, and Hermione nods.

As much as Harry thinks he’s used to him, the sight of Draco standing on his front porch wrapped in his long navy coat and grey scarf never fails to take his breath away. He’s bloody gorgeous, and Harry briefly wonders how it would feel like to pull him inside the warm foyer, twine his fingers in the golden strands of his hair and kiss him, find out what those lips turned pink from the cold taste like.

In a different life, perhaps. If they were different people, maybe. He stops these thoughts in their tracks. If he lets himself think about it too long, he might not be able to stop.

“Hi,” Harry says instead, slightly breathless, and Draco steps inside, his shoulder brushing Harry’s as he passes him by, unwrapping the scarf from around his neck.

“How are you?” Draco turns to him with a smile.

“I’m fine. Good.” Harry swallows around a dry throat, feeling like a right tit. He hasn’t got a plan for this.

He gestures for Draco to follow him in the sitting room. “Come on in. Ron and Hermione are already here.”

His friends greet Draco warmly when he walks into the sitting room, and they quickly pick up a conversation about the best coffee shops to go to whenever one needs to work outside of the office — Hermione’s and Draco’s main criteria is the presence of plugs to plug their laptops into, and Ron’s is whether the hot chocolate is made from scratch or from powder packets.

Harry lets the friendly conversation drone on as he fills four glasses with gin and Campari and adds an orange peel to each. It’s Hermione’s and Draco’s favourite drink, not Ron’s, but he’s too nervous to manage different drink orders right now.

Draco lifts an appreciative eyebrow when he tastes his Negroni, and Harry decides it’s worth it, even if he prefers the fizzy bitterness of ale to the sweet bitterness of Campari.

Too soon for Harry’s taste, Ron looks at his watch and tells them they’re going to be late. They’re supposed to meet the rest of their Gryffindor friends at the first pub of the night in ten minutes.

“We’re wizards, Ron,” Harry complains. “It’s not like we can’t just Apparate there ten seconds before and still be on time.”

Ron gets up. “Yeah, but all the good tables will be taken. Come on.”

“Oh, but wait!” Hermione turns around sharply to look at Harry. “We forgot to tell Draco about —” She blurts out before Harry’s wide eyes stop her, but she makes it even worse by clapping her hands to her mouth, looking utterly guilty.

“Forgot to tell me what?” Draco’s tone is even, but his eyes harden as they travel from Harry to Hermione.

Hermione recovers before Harry. “There’s a job opening in my team. Muggle Politics Mediation Director.”

Draco studies her in silence. Harry wishes Hermione would just let the information sink in, but he sees she’s on a momentum to convince Draco and he doesn’t have time to stop her before she adds: “Harry suggested I give you the job.”

Draco’s eyes snap to Harry, and he narrows them just a little. Just enough to let Harry know he is in trouble.

A lot of trouble.

Hermione realises her blunder and she opens her mouth to correct it, but Harry touches her arm lightly, silently willing her to just stop talking.

“Er, you should probably go. We’ll meet the rest of you at the pub in a few minutes, okay?” he tells her.

Ron and Hermione get up and leave the room in a stunned silence, Ron awkwardly clapping Harry on the shoulder and saying ‘See you in a bit, mate’, and then they’re out the door and Harry hears the crack of Apparition indicating they’re gone.

And Harry's left with Draco, who's glaring at him with an expression Harry hasn't seen on his face for years.

They’re sitting on the chesterfield, shoulders tense, bodies angled so that they’re facing each other, and Harry wants to reach out and grab Draco’s hand and tell him to forget about it, but he can’t. The job should be Draco’s. It’d be perfect for him.

“So,” Draco rubs his palms on his jeans, “you’re going around asking your friends favours for me?”

His tone is cold like the gust of wind before thunder. Some part of Harry thrills with the danger of it, and he wonders how sick he must be, feeling that weird excitement when his friend is obviously terribly cross with him.

“It’s not a favour,” he argues. “You can apply officially and there will be interviews and everything. You can still ask Hermione about the position, first. I just thought you’d be brilliant at it.”

“Oh, then. If the Chosen One thinks I’d be brilliant at something, then surely, I must drop everything to go do his bidding,” Draco drawls, and the words sting. “You do know I have a job already, Harry? A job that I love, as a matter of fact. I’ve never asked you for anything.”

“Yeah, I know. But... Draco, this one would be Muggle-Wizarding relations. It would mean working with wizards and Muggles both. And you miss the wizarding world.”

“Is that what this is?” Draco sits up, pale eyes flashing, and for a second Harry’s sure he’s going to hex him. “Are you pitying me, Potter? Poor little Draco Malfoy, cutting himself off the wizarding world, missing out on all the good wizarding things. Do you really think it will go down well, when Human Resources at the Ministry receive a CV with my name on it?” He pauses, almost trembling. “I don’t need you to fucking save me.”

Harry is stunned. He didn’t think talking about the job would be easy, but this — this is already a fucking disaster.

He holds out a hand to Draco, but Draco flinches away. “I’m not... I’m not saving you,” he says. ”You don’t need saving.”

“How would you know?” Draco gives him a rueful smile, but his tone is cold, and his mouth twists into the spiteful sneer that Harry knows so well from their Hogwarts days. He stands up, throwing his hands out. “The Malfoy name is fucking _disgraced,_ Potter. My father made sure of that, and _I_ made sure of that, too. I did what I did for the wrong reasons, but I still did it. I may be different from back then today, I may _work_ to be different, but it doesn’t magically negate the past. I regret it every day, and I wish I had been different then, but there’s nothing I can do. Don’t tell me you know what it’s like, because you don’t.” He jabs a finger at Harry, and Harry backs away from him, further into the cushions of the chesterfield. Draco leans over him, and repeats, “You don’t.”

“You didn’t have a choice.” Harry’s voice comes out as a rasp.

“Neither did you, but don’t pretend you ended up on the good side out of sheer luck. You've had a shit life as a teenager, you could have easily become the worst of us all. And yet here you are, still a better person than I am, Harry. I had all those... those hateful ideologies hammered into my brain since I was a child, sure. But I could have realised sooner how wrong everyone around me was. How wrong _I_ was. I could have, and I chose not to. And that choice is responsible for... for so much destruction. So much death.” Draco turns away, raking a trembling hand through his hair.

“My choices, too,” Harry whispers. “The people, the press... they made me into that _hero_ , but it doesn’t erase the fact that so many people died because of a war I triggered. Because of choices I made.” He thinks about the still, cold bodies in the Great Hall of Hogwarts after the Battle, the ones he’s seen in his nightmares for years. He wonders if Draco has the same dreams. Or ones just as awful, with just as many dead.

“Harry,” Draco says through gritted teeth, a frustrated scowl on his face. “I’m sorry you think that way. But it’s not the same. You’re still welcomed in our world. I’m not. I’ve worked hard to put the past behind me. To move past my childhood prejudices, to learn about the people I once despised, to become someone I can actually respect, outside of the label the wizarding world would have wanted to put on me. I've made peace with my past.” He looks at Harry then, chin raised, that haughty look back on his face. He stops and weights his next words carefully. Harry sees the moment Draco is going to try and hurt him even before he speaks. “Please don’t try to make this about your own issues,” Draco says, wielding his sharp words like a blade. “I’m not your fucking charity project.”

Harry realises Draco’s successfully baited him when he’s suddenly bristling with anger. Fuck, this man knows how to push every single one of his buttons, even when he sees it coming. Yes, he understands that Draco wants to be annoyed with him, but his response to Harry’s offer to help is so fucking _unfair_. Draco’s fury stirs new kinds of emotions in him, ones that make him want to lash out, ones that make him want to hurt him too, just a little bit. The pull of it is so powerful, it sends him back to Sixth Year, to a darkened bathroom, a vulnerable Draco, a fight of wands, instead of words like they're having now.

All the thoughts he’s kept to himself ever since he and Draco became friends are rushing through his brain, and he just wants to grab Draco, to shake him, to make him fucking _see_.

“Oh, yeah? You’ve made peace with your past, have you?” Harry scrambles up from the sofa, and he faces Draco across the sitting room. It’s like they’re about to duel, he reflects, except their wands aren’t drawn. _Yet_. “If you feel so good about the past, why does it look like you’re still running away from it? Pretending you’re a Muggle when you very obviously never will be, as if this alone makes you a better person?”

Draco’s eyes flash with anger, and he opens his mouth to lash back at Harry, but Harry can’t stop, keeps on, wants to say it, wants to hurt him.  “Why is it that you never show your arm, Draco? If you’re all fine with who you are, tell me, what is it you’re still hiding under those long sleeves of yours?”

Harry stops at that, breathing hard. He knows he’s gone too far, that he’s completely out of order, that he’s crossed a line. A big fucking one.

Draco looks murderous, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he hexed him then and there.

Honestly, he would let him. He can’t believe he said it. He might as well have gone over to Draco and ripped the sleeve off his left arm, the result would be the same.

But then Draco’s expression shifts before Harry’s eyes. His scowl fades as his ragged breaths slow down, and his eyes soften with a resigned, almost pleading look. He sits back down on the sofa, his head in his hands, his fingers raking through his white-blond hair.

“Harry,” he sighs. “I can’t. They’ll never have me.”

It’s like they’re back to talking about the job offer, but Harry knows it’s not all there is to it. This is about Draco, this is about them. It is way more personal than a Ministry job.

He wants to go to Draco and hug him fiercely, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays where he is, clenches and unclenches his fists, and says:

“They will. It’s been a long time since the war.” Draco eyes him, incredulous, and Harry continues. “You’ve been away for too long, Draco. I see it every day. My friends see it too. Nobody wants to think about those fucking years, I swear to Merlin. It’s like... the wizarding world is too happy to still be standing, everybody wants to go on living. And,” he swallows. His throat hurts. “Sure, you dad is a right arsehole, there’s no denying that, sorry. But your mum saved me. _You_ saved me. I’ve been very clear about it during the trials, and everybody knows. And then you served your time. And no offense, Draco, but you weren’t that much of a Dark wizard to begin with, so I don’t think that people have much reason to think about you in those terms anymore.”

At that, Draco huffs a disbelieving laugh, his grey eyes meeting Harry’s, and Harry’s heart gives a hopeful little leap. “I think what you can bring to the wizarding world — to the wizarding world _and_ the Muggle world, to be honest — I think everybody will see how much it outweighs the mistakes you may have made years ago.” They stare at each other for another while, the only sound in the room the crackling of embers in the hearth. “Please consider it, Draco. You don’t have to, but I’d like you to. You’re my friend, and I really, honestly, just want to help.”

A flash of emotion crosses Draco’s eyes, but it’s gone before Harry can identify it. Draco stands straighter, squares his shoulder, the old defiance back.

“So it’s not because you feel bad for me, then?”

“Sorry, Draco, you’re too much of an arsehole for me to pity you,” Harry lifts a casual shoulder, and Draco snorts. “Actually, my intentions are purely selfish. Hermione has driven me mental since Christmas, all she can talk about is how she’s never going to find a candidate because all the CVs she gets are shit. I’m just trying to save myself a few more months of her whinging.” 

Draco laughs, shaking his head. And Harry feels like he can finally breathe again.

They’ve had that fucking talk. They fought, and yelled, and were awful at each other, and they survived.

Harry feels so light, so relieved that he could punch the air.

He doesn’t, though. He suspects it would not go down well with Draco just now.

“Okay, Harry, you win," Draco tells him. "I’ll talk to Hermione." He studies him for a minute, rubbing his jaw. “Your legendary Gryffindor stubbornness pays off, I guess.”

“I’m glad my flaws are being put to good use.”

“It doesn’t mean I’ll apply. Nor does it mean I’ll get the job, should I choose to do so.”

“No, of course not,” Harry says, even though he knows for certain that no one is better equipped to succeed than Draco. He moves closer to Draco, who is sitting with his arms folded over his chest in a posture that speaks both of defiance and vulnerability, and touches his elbow. “Come on. Let’s go to that bloody pub. The others are waiting for us, and I think we’ve earned a pint.”

Unconsciously, he closes his hand around Draco’s forearm, the comforting heat of Draco’s skin seeping through the fabric of his shirt and into Harry’s palm.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco snorts, “You don’t need to manhandle me, Potter.”

“I’m not manhandling you,” Harry gives him a wicked smile. “And I thought you were supposed to call me Harry.”

“Yes, _Harry_ ,” Draco says with a dramatic roll of his eyes, and Harry laughs.

  
****

Three weeks later, Hermione Firecalls Harry to let him know that Draco’s application was successful, and that he’s just accepted the position in her team. She tells him that his experience and profile were so above all the other candidates’, and that he’d done so well at his interviews, no one in her department even thought of mentioning his past criminal record.

They all meet at Harry’s flat again to celebrate, in the same room where Draco had once refused to consider his dream job out of pride, and Harry and his friends toast Hermione and Draco’s achievements.

“To doing some good in this world,” Hermione says, and she gives Harry a smile and a little wink when she clinks her glass to his.


	6. Chapter 6

**_I see my life come shining from the West down to the East  
_ Nina Simone,** **_I Shall Be Released_ **

 

**Spring 2005**

 

Harry and Draco’s fight is the last big row they have.

 

Draco starts his job at the Muggle-Wizarding Relations department in February and he’s delighted, even though he never directly says so to Harry. But he talks about his projects with even more enthusiasm and passion than he did when he worked at _The Times_ , so Harry suspects Draco’s enjoying himself tremendously.

As Muggle Politics Mediation Director, he’s posted at the Muggle Prime Minister’s office. Being their chief wizarding consultant, he mostly spends time with Muggles and his encounters with actual wizards remain limited. But he can let himself be a wizard again, at least at work where it is actually expected of him. Draco tells Harry he told his Muggle friends he was offered a job at the Prime Minister’s office, and it seems that they all believe his version of the story, Draco apparently being brilliant enough that no one is surprised he has those kinds of opportunities thrown at him.

And Draco is brilliant, isn’t he? Harry admires his resourcefulness, his survival instinct, his sheer brain power — he’s capable of adapting and learning so fast that he’s not only able to pass for Muggle, but to also seamlessly integrate the journalism and politics fields for which far more than superficial knowledge of Muggle society is needed. Even Hermione is a little envious, Harry can tell.

He’s proud of Draco, and that’s a good feeling.

 _Weird_ , sure, but decidedly good.

 

In the meantime, Harry works hard at St Mungo’s, grows more comfortable in his Healer’s role. The little free time he has, he spends it with his friends, who now include Draco.

He starts seeing Ginny again, and they get on as well as they did before being together. They become great friends again, and it feels so natural that he almost regrets ever trying to make things work for them as a couple when they could have been friends all along.

And Harry also has a string of dates — all Muggle.

He goes out with Sarah, a spirited brunette whom he literally breaks his bed with; Ron almost pisses himself laughing when he asks him and Hermione to come and help him shop for a new bed frame. She leaves him for one of her ex-boyfriends who’s back from New Zealand and wants to get back together.

He then dates Raj, all smouldering black eyes and soft brown skin, and for a few weeks they fuck like the world is ending, sometimes three times in a night, until Harry’s so sleep-deprived that he breaks things off with him just to get some much-needed rest.

He’s trying to decide if he prefers sex with boys or with girls. But all that his many dates do is confirm that he loves both. He loves the feel of a hard cock against his thigh, heavy in his fist, thrusting inside his arse; he also loves the heady taste of girls, the visceral validation he feels when he slips his fingers into their folds to find them wet and ready for him, the firm softness of their breasts cupped in his hands.

It seems that he can only answer that question like a true bisexual, which is to say he doesn’t want to decide.

Jenny, his next girlfriend, is sweet and unassuming and the sex is tender and fulfilling, so they stay together for a bit longer that he’s used to. In the end though, Jenny splits up with him because she can’t deal with the nightmares that he keeps having. She can’t seem to reconcile the image of Harry, the strong, happy pediatrician she knows by day, and the man who wakes her up at night with traumatised cries; and it scares her.

It's the downside of dating a Muggle, Harry thinks, wondering if he’ll ever find someone who he can be open about his past with, who can understand where he comes from. Dating a witch or a wizard is still out of the question; he’s just not ready for that kind of public attention again. He hasn’t forgotten the constant nagging and the wild speculation of the press when he was dating Ginny, and he’s glad he can avoid it when he’s out in the Muggle world.

 

In March, Draco meets Alex via Lisa. Alex is one of Lisa’s new interns at _NME_ — and him and Draco start dating a few weeks later. Alex is a twenty-year-old Irish Muggle with a pretty face and the body of an Adonis, if Harry is to judge. Harry teases Draco about his younger boyfriend so mercilessly that even Ron notices and tells him, with a significant lift of his eyebrow, to quit being an arse.

In any case, Alex leaves Draco two months later when his internship is over and he goes back to Trinity College to finish his bachelor degree. Draco is sad for a few weeks, and Harry feels bad for ever making fun of him for Alex.

 

In April, Harry goes out with Draco and his Muggle friends. At the pub, as the bell rings for last orders, a slightly tipsy Lisa throws her arm around Draco’s shoulders and informs Harry that she was responsible for Draco’s musical education.

“That man was a complete disaster when I met him, Harry,” she tells him with a feral grin. “Can you imagine he didn’t even know who the _Beatles_ were?”

Harry snorts and all of Draco’s friends laugh. Draco, offended, mumbles something about English boarding schools being cut off from the real world.

Lisa continues, ignoring Draco's protests and rising blush. “It’s like he had been living under a fucking rock for the past eighteen years. Or had dropped to Earth from Mars. So I lent him my copy of _OK Computer_. We listened to it together, and I swear I could see the musical orgasm happening in his brain.”

Harry bursts out laughing, and Draco blushes further.

“Radiohead are bloody magicians, aren’t they, if they taught our baby Draco a thing or two,” Aissa winks at him.

Draco flips them all two fingers, and Lisa loudly smacks a kiss on his temple.

“What about you, Harry?” Sean asks, leaning against Aissa. “Who took your musical virginity?”

Harry tells them about the _In Utero_ cassette he had nicked from Dudley, and how he had listened to _Heart-Shaped Box_ on repeat for days on an old battered Walkman he owned — he doesn’t tell them about how he had scavenged and repaired that most prized possession of his from the neighbours’ rubbish bin, though.

Draco looks at him intently, guessing there’s more to the story than Harry lets on, and Harry gives him a look that says, _maybe another time_.

After the pub, they all go dancing at Koko. Draco spins a giggling Aissa around, and Lisa mimes playing the guitar and makes Harry and Sean laugh.

In the stroboscopic red and blue lights, Harry catches glimpses of Draco dancing, eyes closed, pale hair glowing in the dark, lithe body moving in time with the music, a thin sheen of sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

He wonders how the Muggles around them don’t even suspect how different Draco is from them.

Draco’s alien beauty is a magic all of its own, and Harry’s entranced, just for a moment, until Lisa links her arm to his and pulls him into a dance.

Sean leaves Koko with a hot bloke he’s chatted up at the bar; Lisa and Aissa follow half an hour later, saying they’re tired and that they need to work the next day.

Harry and Draco end up Apparating to Central London, and they share fish and chips, sitting on a bench facing the Millennium Bridge and St Paul, watching the Thames sparkle and glimmer like a mud-green snake in the rising sun.

 

In May, at Sunday lunch at Molly’s and Arthur’s, Ron and Hermione announce that they’re getting married. Harry abruptly feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs. He congratulates them in a daze; he’s caught in a sea of cheering red-haired Weasleys, and he suddenly feels desperately lonely. He catches Ginny’s eye and he wonders if she thinks along the same lines as he is. If they could have ended up planning a wedding, too, were they still together. The rational part of his brain reminds him that he’s happy — happy for his friends, and happy with the life he’s chosen for himself. The sentimental part of his brain is harder to reason with. He should be entirely happy for his friends, not thinking about himself. He’s ashamed of it, and there’s no one he can tell about how his friends’ good news affect him.

Not even Draco.

 

In June, Draco rents a shiny black Mini Cooper and drives Harry, Lisa and Sean to the Glastonbury Festival, and it’s the first Muggle festival that Harry goes to.

He was afraid that the crowds and the tents would trigger memories of his last time participating in an event of this scale, but they oddly don’t. He doesn’t know if he feels safe because he’s surrounded by Muggles, or because he’s with Draco. Which shouldn’t make any sense, given how much of an arsehole Draco had been when Harry had seen him at the Quidditch World Cup ten years ago. And yet, somehow, it does make sense, and Harry lets himself enjoy the weekend away.

They traipse in the mud, buy many pints of beer in plastic cups, and they dance to the White Stripes and M.I.A. under heavy rain.

When his friends aren’t looking, Draco casts a quick _Impervius_ on Harry’s glasses and shoes, and sheathes his wand in his back pocket with a wink. Then Lisa grabs Harry and Draco by the hand and drags them back into the crowd and the wall of sound pummeling the writhing bodies around them.

Harry has one too many Red Bull and vodkas, and on Friday night he ends up with Lisa pressed up between him and a tree, her arms around his neck, tongues licking into each other’s mouths and specs clinking together. He fingers her until she cries out and clenches around his hand, and Harry ruts up against her until he comes in his pants like a bloody teenager.

It rains heavily and the fields are flooded, and the next day Draco is in a mood that Harry suspects has nothing to do with the weather.

He doesn’t see Draco for a month after that. Lisa sends him a few texts, all very nice and friendly, but Harry doesn’t respond, and she stops texting him after a while.

 

Eventually, Draco calls Harry on his birthday, and he meets Harry and his friends at a Muggle pub in Camden, and just like that, things are back to normal again.

 

****

 

**September 2005**

 

“Come on, Harry, we’re going to be late!”

Ginny’s head pops into the room, and she quickly gets inside and closes the door behind her. Harry catches her eye in the mirror he’s standing in front of. Ginny is radiant in her lilac gown, two rows of white pearls resting against her collarbones, her hair plaited in a heavy braid and sprinkled with forget-me-nots. The perfectly put-together outfit contrasts with her scowl and the wrinkle of stress between her eyebrows, and Harry is suddenly reminded of how fond he is of her.

“Gin,” he smiles. “You look beautiful.”

She waves him off. “So do you, but Hermione won’t care about how good we look if we walk down that aisle _after_ her. We were supposed to be there three minutes ago already!”

“I’m almost ready,” he says, fumbling with the ties of his dress robe. He pulls at them in frustration and gestures toward Ginny. “Help me with that?”

Ginny huffs and walks over to Harry. She waves her wand and murmurs ' _Colligato'_ , and the ties of Harry’s robes fasten themselves in a perfect bow.

She gives him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Harry, this is a Second Year spell.”

“I’ve worn formal robes like, three times in my life!” Harry argues, but Ginny extends her arm, bent at the elbow, and she nods at Harry to take it.

“I don’t care. Let’s go!”

And they Apparate on the lawn of Ron and Hermione’s cottage, in front of several rows of white chairs and the already seated wedding guests.

It’s a beautiful autumn day and the ceremony is simple and tasteful.

It’s a small wedding, with no more than fifty guests, seated in rows of white chairs facing the flowery arch where the bride and groom exchange their vows. Given Ron and Hermione’s history and relative fame, the guest list could have easily got out of hand. Yet Hermione had insisted that they only invite their close friends and family members — after some grumbling on Ron’s part, who, according to Hermione, was ready to invite the entirety of their year from Gryffindor, and much whining from Molly Weasley who swore her great-uncle’s family from Australia would be mortally offended that they weren’t invited.

In the end, things had turned out the way they always did when Hermione’s Gryffindor single-mindedness kicked into gear, that is to say she did things exactly the way she wanted.

One of the biggest stumbling blocks had been deciding whether Harry should be Ron’s or Hermione’s best man. So today, he stands by Hermione’s side with Luna and Neville; Ron has Ginny, George and Bill. The wedding party is dressed in pale grey to match Ron’s robes and soft lilac to match the ribbons on Hermione’s white dress. When the time comes for the newlyweds to exchange rings, Harry and Ginny both step up to them, sliding the boxes where the wedding rings are kept to the groom and bride. As Ron slides the ring onto Hermione’s finger, and then she does the same to him, Ginny winks at Harry and he tries his best to hide his grin. They’re going to be alright, Gin and him, he knows; even if they never end up exchanging vows of everlasting love like his two best friends just did.

Hermione throws her arms around Ron’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss as the audience breaks into whoops and cheers.

Harry catches Draco’s eye among Hermione’s guests. He’s clapping and grinning brightly, and Harry’s last dregs of loneliness evaporate in the late afternoon sun.

After the ceremony, all the single women huddle on the lawn behind a giggling Hermione, and Hermione throws her bouquet. Harry is not surprised when Ginny jumps up, quick as a cat, and catches it. There are a few more cheers from the men and some disappointed sighs from the ladies, and Ginny smuggly twirls the bouquet between her hands, parading with it throughout the cocktail reception. Later, she confesses to Harry that she didn’t care about catching it, really. “Catching things flying at you is just a knee-jerk reaction when you’re a professional Quidditch player,” she laughs. “It’s not like I have a future husband lined up right now.”

After dinner is served under white tents charmed to fit all their guests, Ron and Hermione open the ball to the first chords of _I Shall Be Released_ , a slow, romantic cover by the Weird Sisters, and soon several other couples join them on the dancefloor.

Harry’s still sitting at the wedding party table when Molly Weasley slides into the seat next to him. She puts a small, freckled and slightly spotted hand over his. Her eyes are a little wet, and she smiles at Harry. He turns his hand and squeezes her fingers.

“Once upon a time, I thought you and Ginny would be the first ones of the bunch to get married,” she tells him. Her voice quavers just a little bit, but her tone is kind. “But I know the two of you are happier this way.”

“Molly...” Harry starts, too moved to find words right away. While Arthur had gotten over Ginny and Harry’s split-up with minimal fuss, Molly’d had a harder time with it. She had hoped Harry would marry into their family, would officially become one of the Weasleys. They all did. Sometimes Harry wonders if that reason alone is why he and Ginny stayed together as long as they did.

“I’ll always love Ginny. But I don’t think I would have been the best option for her in the long run,” he reminds her. “We’re better off being friends.”

“Yes, I know that,” Molly sighs. “You’ll always be my son, Harry. Taking our name is not a condition for that.”

Harry slides his arm around Molly’s shoulders and hugs her tightly.

And as his eyes sweep over the dancing couples, the tables filled with laughing guests, the little groups scattered across the lawn with champagne glasses in their hands, he reflects on how different his life could have turned out. A few years ago, when he imagined what his life would be like at twenty-five, he pictured himself as an Auror, married to Ginny, maybe with a baby on its way. And now, just the thought of that well-planned scenario makes him shudder.

Tonight, he feels young and free. His future is open and unclear, but it’s not scary. Not at all. It’s fucking liberating.

He watches Draco laugh, sitting at a table across the dancefloor, his head tilted towards Luna who’s probably telling him one of her sweetly outlandish conspiracy stories, and Harry’s heart swells. He has a job that’s his passion, he has his adoptive family all around him, he has his friends — his incredible, loyal, funny, clever friends, Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna and George and Lee and Seamus and Dean and Ginny.

And Draco, Draco, Draco.

 

****

 

Life goes on.

In November, Harry catches a magical hybrid of the Muggle flu that’s been packing St Mungo’s Children's Ward with achy, sniffling, crying kids, and he can barely move from his couch for a week.

Bowie settles semi-permanently on his chest, kneading his jumper with his pink paws and keeping him warm. The Kneazle pretends that he ends up snuggled on top of Harry entirely by chance, and Harry nuzzles the soft fur, knowing full well it’s Bowie’s way to show he cares.

Harry’s friends make time in their schedules to bring him tea and potions, and Draco stops by Harry’s flat almost every day, bringing containers of chicken soup and extra blankets, all the while grumbling under his breath, “Merlin, Potter, that's disgusting. Fucking wipe your nose, will you?” and Harry smiles fondly through his fever.

At Christmas, Ron and Hermione announce that they’re expecting, and all the Weasleys and Grangers jump on their feet to hug them and congratulate them. Molly Weasley is crying tears of joy against Mrs Granger’s shoulder, and Arthur cannot stop repeating, a delighted grin on his face, “A new grandchild. A new grandchild.”

At some point in the evening, Ron tugs Harry by the sleeve. “Harry. You know you’re going to be the godfather, right?” and it’s Harry’s turn to tear up. They hug fiercely, and Ron whispers, “Love you, mate.”

The winter that year is particularly harsh and cold, and Harry and his friends switch between Muggle and wizarding pubs, preferring the latter on the coldest nights because they can get a table near the fire. Sometimes Draco joins them too, and he seems more comfortable with crossing over to the wizarding side of London as months go by.

Harry has six dates in as many months. They’re all lovely people. He has lots of enthusiastic sex with them, but somehow he never really follows through, and after a few times he stops calling or they do and he goes on to meet someone new all over again.

 

****

 

**March 2006**

 

Harry looks up from his menu to find Draco studying him from across the table. They’re having dinner at a new Indian restaurant that Draco picked, telling Harry it’s supposed to be amazing and enumerating all the raving reviews he’s already read. Honestly, Draco’s enthusiasm was enough to sell the idea to Harry, who had to hide a smile and pretend he needed more convincing, just to take the piss.

And now they’re sitting there, and there’s an oddly focussed look on Draco’s face.

Harry squirms a bit in his seat.

“What?”

“I was wondering… Are you dating anyone?”

Harry’s heart skips a beat and he gapes at Draco for a second.

“No...?” he says slowly, wondering where Draco is leading with that conversation.

Draco looks away, his pale eyes sweeping the room around them, the red and the gold and the dark ebony of the tables.

“Do you ever think about —" He stops, looks at Harry almost shyly. “Do you think you and I should...” He gestures between them, and lifts his eyebrows significantly.

“No. _Merlin_ , no,” Harry cuts him off impulsively.

There’s a brief flash of offense in Draco’s eyes, and Harry slides his hand across the table, resting it very close to Draco’s.

Draco just looks blankly at Harry’s hand, and Harry mumbles, flustered: “Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean — you’re very, er... attractive, yes. It’s not that I’ve never thought about it,” he admits, his face warming incrementally.

"You've thought about it?" Draco asks, lifting an eyebrow. His expression is caught between incredulous and smug.

“But, we’re friends, you know?" Harry hastens to add. "I like that we’re friends. I’d like us to stay that way.”

“Oh, okay.” Draco doesn’t look disappointed. Actually, his face is inscrutable, and Harry wonders why he asked the question in the first place. “Yes, of course. I like that, too. We’re friends.”

They’re quiet for a moment. The waiter comes and takes their orders, and Harry sips a bit of his white wine.

Then Harry’s reminded of that time when he had seen the same intent look on Draco’s face, the first time they met after Hogwarts, and had informed Harry that he found him quite fit.

Harry asks: “Wait. Did you— You just wanted to hear me tell you I find you attractive? You know I’ve already told you that.”

Draco looks at him, surprised. For a second, Harry wonders if he read the situation entirely wrong. Then Draco’s mouth quirks into a smirk.

“Well, yes, Harry. I just wanted you to admit that I’m quite handsome.” If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think Draco was mocking him, and he’s not sure why. “The Chosen One approves of my looks. My life is complete now.”

“You know, the _Chosen One_ will punch you in the face if you call him that ever again," Harry snaps back, equally sarcastic. "Seriously, though. I wasn’t sure you were joking for a minute.” He rubs his sweaty palms on the napkin in his lap, feeling like he can breathe again. He smirks. “You manipulative bastard.”

“Still not used to having a Slytherin friend, Potter?” Draco grins smugly and takes a sip from his glass of wine. “And yes,” he adds after a moment, looking more serious than he did a second before, “That’s what we’ll always be. Friends.”

Harry nods. There’s an odd constriction in his chest, like his ribcage is slightly too tight, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel.

But he’s relieved that specific conversation is now behind them, and he forces a smile.

“Good. I’m glad.”

 

****

 

That spring, Draco starts dating Dan, an arts and culture editorialist whom Harry instantly finds supremely annoying.

“He’s so _pretentious_ ,” Harry whines when he tells a very pregnant Hermione about him over one of their monthly lunches. “All he talks about is _this_ Polish independent film or _that_ unknown indie dubstep band or _that_ fucking art gallery that no one cares about. It’s all I can do not to fall asleep when he opens his mouth.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. He can tell she thinks he’s being dramatic.

“Why are you even hanging out with him, then? Isn’t he supposed to be _Draco’s_ boyfriend?”

“Yeah, but Draco invites him along when we go out with his friends.”

“How many times did this happen, Harry?” Hermione asks sternly, hands resting on her round belly.

“Er, two, maybe three times?”

She crosses her arms on the table. “If you dislike him so much, just don’t go out with Draco when he brings him along. And maybe Draco wants to spend time with his boyfriend _alone_ , Harry. Have you thought of that?”

Harry stops short at the suggestion. He’s honestly never thought about _not_ going out with Draco on the usual pub nights with his Muggle friends. He realises now that perhaps Draco is just being polite when Harry comes along uninvited.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “Dan’s a prat.”

“It’s funny that you’d think that. It’s not like Draco can't be a snobbish git himself when he wants to,” Hermione’s smirking at him now.

“It’s not the same!” Harry argues. He sounds like he’s defending Draco’s honour or something, and he adds quickly, “The man said the Libertines were too _mainstream_ for his tastes, Hermione. _The Libertines_.”

“Merlin help us if The Libertines are not good enough for him, then,” Hermione gently teases him, and Harry shakes his head while she goes back to her food, chuckling.

 

****

 

In May, Harry surprises Draco with tickets to the Radiohead concert at Koko.

There are only a handful of tickets available, and Harry might have gone out of his way to get his hands on them, possibly pulling a few ‘I’m the Saviour of the Wizarding World’ strings among witches and wizards acquainted with Muggle music.

Lisa’s face does a weird thing when he tells her in secret that he’s going to invite Draco.

“Harry,” she says, “I love you for doing this for Draco. And I hate you for not getting a ticket for me, too.”

When Harry tells Draco, Draco gapes at him for a second, then pulls Harry into a fierce hug. Harry is so surprised that he belatedly lifts his hands to pat Draco’s back. Draco lets go of him, looking a bit embarrassed, as if he hadn’t known he would hug Harry until he did.

Later, when they’re at the concert and the audience holds its collective breath at the first chords of _Paranoid Android_ , Harry reflects on the fact that he and Draco have never hugged before. It was worth the wait, and he’s stupidly warmed by the thought.

Draco sighs contentedly at his side as they leave the venue. “I hoped they’d play _True Love Waits_ ,” he says, “but it was _amazing_ nonetheless.” He looks at Harry, eyes bright. “Thank you.”

It takes all of Harry’s willpower not to lean in and kiss him.

 

****

 

That summer, Harry stays in London because Ron and Hermione’s baby is due any day and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Draco takes two weeks off work — his boyfriend Dan is taking him on a road trip through Italy. Harry imagines all the pretentious activities Dan has planned out for them: the man is probably all about day-long visits to museums, dining in quaint little trattorias and taking detours to see churches and villages that other tourists don’t know about.

 _Ugh_.

Even in Harry’s head, it sounds like the perfect holiday for Draco, and Harry’s in a foul mood for days.

At least, until he receives a text from Draco. _In Tuscany right now - warm and sunny, food is mind-blowing, so is the culture, you’d hate it, you uncultured prat._ A second text quickly follows the first: _How’s London? I miss you._ Then, a minute later, a third: _Do you miss me?_

The message could be interpreted literally, but knowing Draco, there’s certainly a heavy dose of sarcasm involved. So Harry doesn’t reply straight away, wanting to think about a response that’s witty, yet layered with double meaning.

But Ron calls him on his mobile while he’s working at the hospital, sounding a bit hysterical, telling him with a shaky voice that Hermione was just admitted to the maternity ward.

Four hours later, Rose Weasley-Granger is born, and Harry decides it is one of the best days of his life, and little Rosie is one of the most beautiful things in the world.

He forgets about being witty, and just texts Draco, _Hermione and Ron’s daughter was born today. Her name is Rose, and she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen._

Draco replies almost immediately, _I’m sure she is. Congratulations to them both. I can’t wait to see her, and all of you._

After that, Harry and Draco text several times a day until Draco comes back. It’s like having this ongoing conversation with him, Draco constantly in his thoughts, and Harry wonders how normal it is for friends to do that, to be so entrenched in one another’s minds that he can't keep Draco out of his head, and all he sees when he closes his eyes at night are a swathe of white-blond hair and warm, mocking grey eyes.

 

****

**December 2006**

 

The end of 2006 sneaks up on all of them. Harry doesn’t even notice the holiday season is upon them until he walks into The York, a Muggle pub in Draco’s neighbourhood, and he sees the bar decked in garlands of holly and gold baubles.

Harry buys a pint at the bar and joins Draco, Pansy and a tall blond girl that he's never seen before, all of whom are lounging on a battered leather sofa in a corner, drinks on the table in front of them and already deep in conversation.

“Hello,” Harry announces.

“Hi, Potter.” Pansy sits up a bit straighter and places her hand on the blond girl’s shoulder. “This is my girlfriend, Melusine.”

Harry had not idea that Pansy had a _girlfriend_ , but he politely holds out his hand to her nonetheless. “Nice to meet you, Melusine.”

The girl takes it, her face curiously bland, until Pansy explains: “She’s French, Potter. She speaks very little English.”

“Ah,” Harry says, unsure what to do next. He doesn’t know any French, and Melusine keeps staring at him, possibly waiting for him to continue his socialising efforts. She’s tall, skinny, with a very pretty face, and she’s dressed in the same intimidatingly stylish way Pansy seems to favour. Probably a French thing, Harry muses. She looks exactly like Harry pictures Parisian women in his mind, fashionable and just this side of bitchy, and he decides he definitely prefers the more approachable look of English girls.

“It’s Christmas already,” he states, avoiding Pansy’s and Melusine’s piercing gazes.

At that, Draco lifts his head from the arm of the sofa.

“Such astute observational skills, Potter,” he drawls. “The Auror force still weeps for your dropping out.”

Harry’s about to snap back at Draco, but he holds back when he notices that there is no bite behind Draco’s words and that his friend looks strangely dejected. Pansy is patting Draco’s knee gently, those dark eyes of hers studying Harry warily from under her black fringe. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say her and Draco would make a beautiful couple, just based on their looks.

“What are you doing for Christmas this year?” he asks instead, to both Draco and Pansy — he hopes Melusine won’t be offended that he doesn’t include her in the conversation.

“Dinner with my mother,” Draco mumbles and doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m back for a month,” Pansy tells Harry after contemplating Draco for a second. She looks more animated as she continues, her hand slipping to rest on Melusine’s thigh. “My company needed someone for this assignment on British Muggle fashion, and of course I told them I was the best person for the job. And Melusine can take a few days off, too. Any excuse to spend some quality time with my favourite boy,” she says as she leans in and ruffles Draco’s hair. He bats her away wearily. “I’ll be here until after New Year’s.”

“Er, cool,” Harry says. “I’m spending Christmas at the Weasleys’, as usual. And then I might have New Year’s Eve free for once.”

Since Harry started working at St Mungo’s, he’d always been on the New Year’s Eve shift. It’d never been a bother — the Christmas and New Year’s shifts were usually calmer, mostly about kids eating too much pudding and getting indigestion, or minor magical crackers accidents — paper cuts, burns and the occasional immovable confetti cloud above one’s head. But it’s going to be nice to not have to work this year.

“Oh!” Pansy claps her hands, surprising both Harry and Draco. “Blaise and I are organising a little New Year’s Eve bash in that new bar just off Diagon — you know, _Blue Orchid_? Harry, you should come!”

Harry’s eyes flick to Draco, who lifts an eyebrow, looking for all the world like he doesn’t care about any of it — Pansy’s party or Harry’s presence in it.

“Er, sure,” he says. “Can I bring friends?”

“I’d like to keep the number of Gryffindors to a minimum, thanks,” Pansy says dryly. Then, seeing the look on Harry’s face, she claps him on the thigh. “Merlin, I’m joking, Potter! Yes, of course you can bring your friends.”

“Is Dan coming, too?” Harry asks Draco.

Draco blanches a little at the question, and his hands clench into white-knuckled fists.

“Always putting your foot in it, Harry, aren’t you?” he snarls at Harry, gets up from the sofa in one swift move and strides over to the bar.

Harry stares after him, dumbstruck, then turns to Pansy whose wary air has returned.

“What did I say this time?” he exclaims.

“He split up with Dan last Sunday,” she sighs. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course not! Do you really think I’m that insensitive?”

“Well, you’re a Gryffindor after all…” Pansy trails.

“Oh, shut up.” Harry sits back in his chair, feeling like a right twat. “Do you know what happened?”

“Just… basic disagreement over the pace of their relationship. Dan reproaching Draco for not wanting to move fast enough, and all that.” She looks at Harry. “But maybe you should ask Draco yourself, don’t you think?”

“Right,” Harry snorts. “I’m sure he’s in a mood to tell me all about his failed relationship.”

Right now Draco looks more likely to hex Harry’s bollocks off than to open up about his broken heart.

“Fine. Don’t talk. It’s healthier that way,” Pansy lifts her hands up.

Pansy’s girlfriend flips her long hair over her shoulder and asks her something in rapid French. Pansy reaches out and squeezes her hand. “ _Je te raconterai, ma chérie_ ”, she murmurs with a sweet smile that Melusine returns, then she turns her attention back to Harry.

“What about you, anyway? Are you bringing a date on New Year’s Eve?”

“Ah — probably not. I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“How come the Saviour of the Wizarding World is still single at twenty-six?” Pansy grins like a shark, and Harry feels a sharp surge of annoyance at her use of his unofficial title.

He’s still not entirely comfortable around Draco’s Slytherin friends, especially Pansy, who for all her warming up to Harry has never apologised for trying to sell him out on the night of the Battle. But mainly, he thinks Slytherins are a species all of their own, and too unlike him for him to ever fully understand them. He can never tell whether they have a hidden agenda or are just being snide for the fun of it.

Draco might be the only one he really gets along with — and again, not all the time. Right now being the perfect example.

He decides to shrug noncommittally, because he knows it will irk Pansy way more than him lashing out.

“I just haven’t found the right person yet,” he says.

She picks up her martini glass from the table and studies Harry from above the rim.

“Are you sure you know where to look?” she asks, and Harry has the feeling there’s a layer to her question, but damned if he knows what it is.

 _Fucking Slytherins_ , he thinks.

“I’m only twenty-six, Pansy. There’s no rush, is there?”

“If you say so,” she shrugs.

Draco comes back from the bar with a fresh glass of tan liquid in his hand, and drops down on the couch next to her.

“Thank Merlin for Muggle whisky,” he sighs, his irritation from a few minutes ago seemingly evaporated. “Firewhisky tastes like Hippogriff piss once you know what a good single malt tastes like.”

Pansy gives Harry a pointed look, and he goes back to sipping his beer, letting her and Draco pick up a conversation about the merits of Muggle versus Wizarding drinks and fare. And he avoids thinking about Slytherins and double meanings carefully hidden behind innocuous questions.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**_This thing called love, I just can’t handle it  
_ Queen** **_, Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ **

 

**New Year’s Eve, 2006**

 

True to her word and her fashionable occupation, Pansy’s party is delightful.

She and Blaise have privatised the back section of _Blue Orchid_ , a trendy wizarding bar decorated with dark blue velvet hangings and floating white orchids that seem to luminesce in the dim lighting. There are about fifty guests, some of whom Harry recognises from Hogwarts — Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws and the odd Hufflepuff. Pansy and Blaise seem to have reconnected with old schoolmates after all.

The majority of them are dancing on a small dancefloor that positively vibrate with the steps of the guests and the beat of the music — a mix of wizarding and Muggle hits.

Hermione and Ron have left little Rosie with her maternal grandparents and they spend the evening giggling together and walking back and forth, from the bar to the dancefloor. “I feel like I’m twenty-seven again!” a tipsy Hermione laughs in Harry’s ear when he catches up with her at some point during the evening. “Hermione, you _are_ twenty-seven!” Harry yells back, and then she’s gone again, pulled by the hand by a giggling, slightly wobbly-footed Ron.

Harry spots Neville and Luna looking at the stars on the patio outside the bar. Dean and Seamus, after going on an eating spree at the copious buffet provided by Blaise’s catering company, are nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” Draco appears at Harry’s side. “Enjoying yourself?”

“A lot,” Harry smiles. “I’ll have to thank Pansy for inviting me. Although I admit I expected to be doing something more… laid back for New Year’s.”

“Laid back is all you ever do, Potter,” Draco says dryly. “It’s nice to go to nice places once in a while.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m just not used to parties where you’re expected to… dance so much.”

“How can you say that?” Draco clutches his chest, faking shock. “I remember you looking quite stellar at the opening of our Fourth Year Yule Ball!”

Harry snorts. “Oh God, don’t remind me. It’s one of my worst memories from school.”

“Worse that having the Dark Lord trying to murder you every year?” Draco nudges him with his elbow, not unkindly.

“Oh, for sure.”

Draco laughs, and they exchange a look, grinning in the blue light. _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ comes on, and Draco grabs Harry's hand.

“Come on,” he says, “I love this song. Dance with me.”

He drags a reluctantly pleased Harry to the dancefloor and wraps one arm around his waist, still holding Harry’s other hand in his.

Harry swallows.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing with you,” Draco tells him. His smile spreads into a wicked grin. “The way McGonagall taught us, remember?”

“Are you determined to make me relive traumatic memories tonight?” Harry laughs thinly.

“Hopefully that’s the last one,” Draco murmurs, and he pulls Harry closer to him, Harry’s free hand automatically rising to rest on Draco’s shoulder.

They waltz around the dancefloor for a minute, both of them trying to calm their fits of giggles — _nervous_ giggles, at least on Harry’s part.

As expected, Draco is a good dancer, his movements smooth and precise and his steps perfectly in rhythm. And Harry might not be a good dancer, but he is eager to please, if nothing else.

Slowly, naturally, they come closer, until Harry’s chin is almost resting on Draco’s shoulder.

“Look at us, dancing cheek to cheek,” Draco remarks when both of them have been quiet for a while.

“Yeah,” Harry fights to keep his eyes open. His senses are full of Draco, the tautness of his lean body beneath the tight, stylish Muggle clothes, the softness of his palm against Harry’s, the freshness of his cologne over the warm scent of his skin. “Why are you the one leading, by the way?”

“If you wanted to lead, you could have invited me to dance first,” Draco’s drawl vibrates against Harry’s chest.

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “You’re a better dancer than I am, anyway.”

“Understatement of the year, Potter,” Draco snorts.

“I thought you were supposed to call me Harry,” he teases. Then, remembering their last meeting at _The York_ , he says, suddenly serious: “For all it’s worth, I’m sorry about Dan. Pansy told me, and —”

“It’s fine, Harry.” Draco’s voice is low. They circle the dancefloor a few more times before he continues. “He wanted to move in together. I told him I wasn’t ready. We fought, and he left.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He thinks about it for a moment. “It’s not right, you know that. You should be allowed to move forward at a pace you’re comfortable with. Until you’re ready for more, you know?”

“That’s the thing, though,” Draco says flatly. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be. Ready, I mean.” He sighs. “Dan was great, and I just — I just repelled him. That’s what it is. In the end, it was me sabotaging this relationship. There must be something wrong with me, Harry.”

Harry squeezes Draco’s shoulder, hoping to reassure him.

“No, there isn’t. Or if there is, that makes two of us. I’m pants at relationships too, obviously. I didn’t even want to bring a date to this party, and Pansy thinks I’m weird, because of course the _Saviour of the Wizarding World_ ,” he makes sure to inject as much sarcasm as he can into the words, “should have a hot young thing at his arm at all times.”

Draco laughs, and Harry pulls back, looking into his eyes.

“Tell you what,” he says. “If you and I are still single by New Year’s Eve next year, we can be each other’s dates, okay?”

He’s only half-joking, if he’s perfectly honest with himself.

“Okay,” Draco’s face is soft, and his eyes glimmer with something indefinable, or maybe it’s just the lighting of the place. Harry can’t be sure.

He’s vaguely aware that people in the background have started counting backwards from ten, and his gut twists uneasily when he thinks of all the happy couples that are going to start kissing around them in less than a few seconds. Something shifts on Draco’s face; he lets go of Harry’s waist and grabs him by the hand again.

“Come on. Let’s get some fresh air.”

They walk quickly out of the back door and into the patio at the back of the bar. Their breaths form little white clouds in the freezing air and they look at each other, smiling and rubbing their hands over their own arms to warm up. The tip of Draco’s nose is pink from the cold, and Harry could just lean forward and kiss him — it’s midnight on New Year’s, after all, and it would be the perfect excuse — but he doesn’t.

The first lines of _Auld Lang Syne_ drift from inside the bar, and Harry and Draco just look at each other, just breathing in the cold night air.

“Happy New Year, Draco,” Harry says, his voice hoarser than he expects.

“Happy New Year, Harry.” Draco gives him an odd, lopsided little smile and squeezes his hand. He looks down for a second. Time stretches on, and Harry holds his breath. And then Draco just nods, lets go of his hand, and he’s gone, brushing past Harry to get back inside.

Harry takes a deep breath, heart painfully full. It’s a new year starting, full of possibilities, and he hopes it’s going to be brilliant.

 

********

 

**January 2007**

 

“This year is shit so far,” Harry tells Ginny as they’re walking down Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon.

The weather is horrid, windy with a freezing rain that seems to turn Harry’s face to ice. The pavements are so packed with weekend shoppers, Harry and Ginny have to fight their way through the crowd to get to Urban Outfitters.

Ginny pulls the door open and they step inside, Harry feeling momentarily relieved to be out of the cold winter sleet, only to regret it immediately when he sees that the shop is even more crowded than the street outside.

“This year’s shit, you were saying,” Ginny says, already inspecting the multicoloured dresses hanging from a sale rail.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, “starting with when I agreed to go shopping with you.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “You need new clothes, Harry, and so do I. Preventing you from walking around looking like it’s still 1995 is what friends are for.” She gives him a sly look and adds, “Besides, I heard you’re friendly with a certain blond Slytherin these days, and he looks quite fashionable, so you should probably step up your game, too.”

“Draco looks okay,” Harry grumbles, and Ginny turns a predatory smile to him.

“Does he, now?”

“Shut up,” he says, flustered, and she laughs.

“Okay, what about those jeans?” she asks him when they make it to a display of what looks like men’s clothes. She considers him for a second. “I’m sure your bum would look fantastic in those.”

“How do you know?” Harry says, distracted by the rows of rock bands t-shirts.

He looks up and catches Ginny looking him up and down speculatively.

“I seem to remember you were quite fit a while ago,” Ginny muses. “I’m pretty sure your bum hasn’t changed that much since we were dating.”

Now Harry is certain he’s blushing.

“Ginny,” he warns.

“Try these on!” she laughs, and he grabs the jeans reluctantly. “And then you’ll tell me what you think of me in that hot pink dress, alright?”

Harry’s pretty sure she will look fantastic in any of the clothes she decides to try on. Despite Ginny repeatedly saying she’s at the end of her career as a Quidditch Chaser, she still has the body of an athlete, lean and toned and strong. Oddly, Harry thinks, it just makes him proud of her — it’s been years since he’s felt attracted to Ginny in any way.

The jeans are tighter than Harry’s used to, but he can’t deny that his bum looks quite nice in them indeed, and in the end he buys them after Ginny threatens to hex him into next year if he doesn’t.

“So what’s so bad about this year?” Ginny asks him again once they’re back outside. It’s a struggle to keep up with each other and the conversation while navigating a sea of Muggles on a shopping high. The sun has already set and Harry shivers. He doesn’t like the idea of going back alone to his flat in a few hours, ordering curry and watching telly aimlessly until he falls asleep on the couch. He wishes he had made plans to go out with his friends sooner, but he’d thought he’d be exhausted after an afternoon out, shopping with Ginny.

“They switched my shifts at the hospital, and today is going to be my last free Saturday until April at least,” he tells her. “I’m never going to get to see my friends ever again. It’s not like Ron and Hermione can go out on weeknights anymore, they have a baby now. And everybody else has normal work schedules.”

Harry feels guilty complaining, really. He absolutely loves his job and he doesn’t care that he has to work long hours and odd days. If he could, he would spend seven days a week looking after his patients.

Sometimes, though, he wonders whether his job and schedule aren’t something that will end up putting distance between him and his friends over time. Maintaining their routines suddenly feels more important than ever: their Friday night pub crawls and evenings at Harry’s flat over thai food, all those little rituals that nurture friendships.

Ginny links her arm to his. “Thank you for spending this Saturday with me, then. I didn’t realise it was the last free one you had. We could have been doing something fun instead of going shopping.”

“Shopping’s fun.”

“Yeah, for _me._ For you, it’s like watching you get your teeth pulled.” She shakes her head, smiling. “At least now you will be able to hold your own when you go out with Malfoy.” She pauses. “And speaking of…”

She stops in the middle of the pavement, and they come face to face with a familiar blond in a navy Belstaff coat.

“Hello, Draco,” Ginny says.

If she’s surprised to run into Draco Malfoy in the middle of Oxford Street, she hides it well.

“Hi, Ginevra. Harry,” he says, giving Harry a questioning look.

“Ginny took me shopping,” he explains, feeling abashed for no good reason.

“All the times I’ve mocked your fashion sense or lack thereof, and you go shopping with someone else. I’m offended,” Draco teases him gently.

“You mocking me is precisely why I don’t go shopping with you,” Harry replies, just as Blaise Zabini, carrying a Saint Laurent shopping bag, catches up with Draco. He looks at Harry and Ginny with lifted eyebrows.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to meet Harry,” Blaise tells Draco. “Not that I mind the company,” he adds, flashing a white-toothed smile to Ginny.

“We weren’t. He and Ginevra were just out shopping,” Draco says, leaning to the side to read the brand on Harry’s shopping bag, “...at Urban Outfitters, apparently. Potter, what are you, sixteen?”

Harry expects Ginny to be offended by Draco’s offhanded criticism since she’s the one who took him to that shop, and he jumps when she bursts out laughing.

“Honestly, Draco. It’s _Harry_. Where did you expect me to start, Harvey Nichols?”

“You’re right,” Draco grins. “Good thinking, Ginevra. Baby fashion steps for this one, I’m afraid.”

Harry bristles a bit, but he can’t stay cross for long, not when Ginny and Draco seem to be bonding over _something_ — doesn’t matter if that something is Harry’s apparent lack of fashion sense.

“Any plans for tonight?” Draco asks them. “Blaise and I are having dinner at this wine bar in Soho.”

“Not _dinner_ , Draco. It’s research. _Research,_ ” Blaise insists.

“Right,” Draco turns to Harry and Ginny. “Would you like to join us?”

 

The wine bar is warm and cosy, with dark wood furnishings and shelves filled with wine bottles, the hushed atmosphere soothing to Harry’s nerves after an afternoon of fighting throngs of Muggles to buy clothes. Harry still feels uncomfortable in crowds, even though he’s gotten better at navigating them after living in London for so long. He wonders how Ginny has never noticed that about him.

The four of them — Draco, Blaise, Ginny and Harry — are sitting on stools around a high square table. Harry’s let Blaise and Draco order wine and food for the table — it’s not like either of them would have taken his suggestions seriously, and anyway, he’s self-aware enough to admit that he knows bugger all about wine — and after a few minutes they settle into the kind of slightly stilted conversation only new acquaintances can have.

Since he became friends with Draco, Harry could count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Blaise — Draco and his Slytherin friends seem to prefer small gatherings, and Harry understands why they’d want that, given they seldom see each other, Pansy living in France, Blaise being busy with starting his food catering business and Draco working long hours at the Minister’s office. So Harry doesn’t really know what to talk about with Blaise — they clearly have very few intersecting common interests, Harry knowing nothing about gourmet food, and Blaise knowing nothing about Healing.

On his left side, Draco and Ginny seem to be struggling through the same predicament.

“Harry told me you play Chaser for the Harpies,” he hears Draco tell her. “That’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, they recruited me on my final year at Hogwarts, actually. What about you? Do you still play?” Ginny’s tone is polite, yet cautious, as if she’s wary about bringing up the past — after all, most of the Quidditch matches against Slytherin usually ended with insults, fistfights, broken bones, or all of the above combined.

“No, I haven’t played since Hogwarts. I live with Muggles now, I mostly work with Muggles, so — I don’t even really follow Quidditch anymore.”

“Oh.”

They lapse into silence, each of them twirling their wine glasses, suddenly fascinated by the swish of the burgundy liquid within. The waiter brings them a few small plates and Ginny smiles.

“I love that new small plates to share trend,” she says almost to herself, grabbing her fork. “Remember when it was considered rude to steal food from someone else’s plate? Well now it’s like, problem solved.”

Blaise’s head snaps up. “That’s what I think, too!”

Ginny looks at Blaise as if she sees him for the first time. “You do?” She smiles wryly. “To be fair, I think I just read it on a food blog. I’m just quoting someone else.”

Blaise puts his fork down. “What, the blog _Blaise Says?”_

“Yes!” She stops, astonished. “Wait. _You’re_ Blaise from _Blaise Says_?”

“I am! I write the blog.”

“I love that blog!”

“Thank you. Wow. I’m getting chills. It’s the first time someone has quoted one of my posts at me.”

“So you’re a food critic?” Ginny asks, resting her chin in her hand and leaning toward Blaise.

“I just write the blog in my free time. I’ve a catering company mixing Wizarding and Muggle cooking techniques and ingredients. That’s what I do for a living.”

“You’ve got your own business? That’s bloody brilliant!”

“And you’re the Holyhead Harpies Chaser, right?” His smile turns brighter, and positively charming now. “I can’t believe Harry kept you away from the rest of us for so long.”

“Likewise,” Ginny smiles at Blaise and then turns to Harry, frowning. “ _Harry!_ ”

Harry looks from Blaise to Ginny with his mouth hanging open. He snaps it closed.

“Sorry?” he shrugs.

Across the table, Draco shoots him an equally stunned look, as Blaise and Ginny keep talking animatedly about Quidditch scores and the best new places to eat in London, their cheeks growing increasingly pinker and their bodies angling increasingly toward each other as the night goes by.

 

It doesn’t surprise Harry at all when Ginny Firecalls him a week later to tell him she’s started going out with Blaise Zabini. In fact, Harry suspects she started going out with him as soon as humanly possible.

Saturday night, when Draco and Harry had started making noise about it being late and the wine bar ready to close, Ginny and Blaise had waved them off and had stayed behind, barely pausing in their conversation. And so Harry and Draco had left them behind and walked out in the cold January night in a stunned, uncomfortable silence.

Ginny has a wry smile on her face, as if her relationship is nothing to make a big deal about, but Harry can tell by her shiny eyes and pink cheeks that she’s already smitten. He’s happy for her, he really is. He just wonders if he’ll ever meet someone like that. Someone who would be easy to talk to, even if they don’t seem to be at first sight. Someone who would make Harry glow from the inside out, the way Ginny is glowing right now, the way Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and Dean and Seamus are.

He realises with a jolt that most of his close friends have paired off in the past few years, and he suddenly feels starkly alone. He thinks about calling Draco or texting him, asking him what he’s up to. But he stops himself, because it wouldn’t be fair, would it? Draco never complains about being single, except for the occasional self-deprecating comment after a break-up — which happened, what? Twice, maybe three times since he and Harry became friends. He never seems to resent his friends when they’re in a relationship and he’s not. But then again, most of Draco’s close friends are not yet in established relationships, the way Harry’s friends are. That has to make it easier to be alone, right?

In the end, Harry switches on the telly and watches a football match he doesn’t really care about, just to take his mind off the disturbing mix of guilt, resentment and envy he’s feeling.

Yep. Definitely not the right mood to be in when thinking about calling Draco.

 

****

 

Spring that year goes by in the blink of an eye.

As he had predicted, Harry barely has time to see his friends. Hermione regularly sends him pictures of little Rosie, and he goes to their cottage to visit his goddaughter as often as he can. She’s starting to crawl, and her favourite game is climbing on Harry when he’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fireplace at Ron and Hermione’s. “‘Arry, ‘Arry,” she calls him, and he tickles her until they’re both breathless with laughter.

He also takes Teddy Lupin to meet baby Rose. “My godchildren finally meeting,” he says grandly when the nine-year old boy holds out his hand to the nine-month old baby, and she grabs one of Teddy’s fingers and squeezes it, squealing gleefully.

Those days when he sees the kids, Harry’s heart is full of love, and he lets himself feel it even though it threatens to overwhelm him sometimes, and he thinks, strangely, of Dumbledore. Ten years have gone by, and Harry can’t believe that he made it through, that he’s still alive, and that he’s allowed to have this, all this love and this warmth and a job with a purpose and wonderful friends.

He’s not the only one who’s made it through, he thinks whenever he hangs out with Draco. Draco continues to do brilliantly at his job as a mediator for Muggle-Wizarding relations at the Prime Minister’s office, and even starts writing political editorials for Muggle newspapers again. Lisa gets promoted at _NME_ and takes over managing part of the magazine’s online publications. In May, Aissa and Sean both resign from their jobs and open a small second-hand clothing shop in Shoreditch. The premise, when Harry sees it first before Aissa and Sean redecorate, is dark and dingy. They turn the place into a stylish, brick-walled, luminous space with such skill that on their opening day, Harry has to ask Draco if he’s secretly helped them with magic. Draco breaks into barks of laughter at the idea, and then proudly tells Harry that, no, his friends are just _that_ amazing.

 

On Draco’s birthday, Lisa gathers Draco’s friends in a karaoke bar in Farrington. Draco rolls his eyes and complains about the tackiness of her choice, because he’s a snobbish git and that’s what he does, but there’s no disguising the fun he has.

They all have way too much fun, actually, Harry thinks, when he’s well into his fourth whisky of the night. Aissa picks Rihanna’s _Pon De Replay_ and instantly puts them all in a festive mood. Blaise gives them a splendid performance of _Cryin’_ by Aerosmith that almost has Ginny taking off her knickers and throwing them at her boyfriend. Hermione drags a rather drunk Ron on stage and they sing _Dancing Queen_ very loudly and terribly off-key, Ron stumbling on the lyrics of the Muggle song every so often. Draco and Lisa get a very tipsy standing ovation when they perform a rather theatrical rendition of David Bowie’s _Heroes_. And Harry — Harry sings _I Want To Break Free_ because he feels strangely sentimental, and Draco whoops and cheers along with the rest of their friends.

“Trust you to pick a Queen song,” Draco nudges Harry when he sits back in his chair.

“Freddie Mercury is a bisexual icon,” Harry shrugs, secretly rather pleased with himself.

Draco gives him a sidelong look. “You have a nice singing voice,” he says. “Who knew?”

“Another one of my skills that I didn’t get to show off when we were at school?”

“That’s impossible, Potter. Not showing off would have killed you faster than the Dark Lord.”

 

When the place closes for the night, both Harry and Draco are too drunk to Apparate and they decide to share a cab. Hermione gives Harry an odd look when he follows Draco into the car, but Harry is too sloshed to care.

As the cab makes its way to Harry’s flat first, Draco slides next to Harry and lays his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry forgets to breathe. After what feels like an eternity encapsulated in a heartbeat, Draco holds out a tentative hand and covers Harry’s left with his right, his palm warm and alive against the back of Harry’s hand, and Harry lets Draco twine their fingers together, as if this is something normal, something they do in the cab home every Friday night. Something Draco does because he loves Harry, not because they both feel lonely, not because they’re both so tipsy that their inhibitions are lowered.

The cab stops in front of Harry's building, and Draco nuzzles Harry’s shoulder.

“Harry,” he says, his voice low and soft, almost pleading, desperately inviting.

In that moment, there is nothing Harry wants more than to yank Draco out of that cab, pull him into his foyer, shut the door behind them and push him up against it and then... _And t_ _hen what, Harry?_

It takes all of Harry’s willpower to gently disentangle his fingers from Draco’s and just kiss the top of his head.

“Happy birthday, Draco,” he whispers against silky silver hair, and lets go.

 

****

 

**July 31st, 2007**

 

Harry decides to host dinner at his flat for his birthday, partly because he’s ‘too old for karaoke bars’, he tells Draco with a pointed smile that earns him a dramatic eye-roll from Draco, and partly because he has high hopes of better controlling the amount of alcohol he consumes if he’s the one pouring it this time.

Draco, Ginny and Blaise arrive on time, ringing the doorbell and laughing, already tipsy from the few pints they had at the pub between work and Harry’s flat. They all hug him in turn, Ginny almost deafening him with a ‘Happy birthday!!!’ yelled right in his ear, and Draco lingering in his arms just a second longer than strictly necessary.

Hermione and Ron come with little Rosie who seems overjoyed to be included in the festivities, and Harry doesn’t see them for the first hour of his birthday, both parents taking turns in the long and uncertain process of putting the feisty one-year-old to bed. Once they finally walk into Harry’s kitchen again, hair dishevelled and clothes covered in spit-up, Harry pours them a generous measure of Firewhisky each, and they gulp it down gratefully before silently holding out their glasses for a refill. 

“Harry, do you need help setting the table?” Ginny asks, leaning over Harry’s shoulder to peer at the beef and beer stew simmering in the pan. “It’s not as though we don’t enjoy just hanging around and watching you do all the work, but you know. It’s your birthday. Maybe we can help.”

“Sure,” he tells them. “You know where the plates and silverware are? Just get everything ready and I’ll bring the food — just give me five more minutes, okay?”

His friends nod and file out of the kitchen as Harry turns back to the stove. He takes the lid off the pan of mashed potatoes to check that they are still warm, and he almost drops it on his foot when he hears someone clear his throat behind him.

Harry swirls around to find Draco staring at him, hands lifted in mock surrender.

“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Harry breathes out, grabs the wooden spoon next to the stove just to give himself something to do. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Draco says. “I just like to watch you cook.”

“Do you.” Harry turns to stir the pan and hide his flush. The food is ready, but he doesn’t want Draco to know. He’s curious about why Draco is still here with him, instead of helping his friends lay the table in the living room.

“Yes. I like that you cook like a Muggle, when it would be so easy to just do everything by magic.”

He steps closer to Harry, folding his arms and propping a hip against the countertop.

Harry’s heart stutters, and it’s stupid, really. It’s nothing more than Draco, Draco in his kitchen, Draco and him alone in Harry’s kitchen and no one else around to see or hear them.

Draco runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. It’s gotten longer, as if he’s forgotten to get a haircut all summer. It’s a good look on him, Harry thinks. With his hair falling in his eye like that, he looks exactly like the Draco Malfoy he remembers from Hogwarts, and the realisation sends a weird thrill down his spine.

“You like it?” Harry’s voice sounds husky to his ears. He refers to the cooking, he supposes. At least, he hopes Draco knows that, too.

“Mmh-hm. Magically-cooked food never tastes as good as Muggle-cooked.”

“That’s why you like me cooking?” Harry has no idea where his sudden boldness comes from.

“Yes,” Draco looks at him with bright grey eyes, and swallows. Harry’s mesmerized. He can’t move. He’s like a bird locked in a snake’s stare. “It’s quite sexy, actually.”

And at his own words, Draco blushes. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one flirting — _flirting!_ — with Harry; he goes pink as if he can’t quite believe the words that have come out of his mouth. He’s so fucking adorable like that, cheeks flushed and eyes downcast, that Harry wants to laugh and grab him and hug him, and he’s about to, when Ginny steps back into the kitchen.

“Table’s set, Harry — oh.” She stops short when she sees Harry and Draco, standing less that a foot away from each other, both of them visibly flustered.

“Food’s ready,” Harry croaks.

Draco stares at him for a second, then turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen. Harry nods to Ginny, refusing to feel embarrassed. “Help me Levitate all this to the living room?”

“Everything okay?” she asks as she follows Harry out of the kitchen, several pots and pans floating in front of them.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry knows it sounds like a dismissal, but it’s his bloody birthday and he’s allowed to... to just _not want to feel things_ if he doesn’t want to.

He walks into the living room. Everybody’s already there, sitting around the old mahogany table standing near the windows, one of the few pieces of furniture he kept from Grimmauld Place before giving the house away.

His friends all greet him with ‘Happy birthday’s when they see him walking in, floating pans by his side, closely trailed by Ginny. There are only two seats left at the table — one across from Blaise Zabini and the other across from Draco.

Harry’s ribcage feels tighter when he realises Ginny is going to take the seat across from her boyfriend, and everyone will be sitting in pairs — two _couples_ , and Harry and Draco.

Harry sets the pans on the table as softly as he can before walking over to the free chair across from Draco and taking his seat. Draco’s mouth quirks into a half-smile as he determinedly looks anywhere but at Harry.

“I’ll serve!” Hermione quips and jumps to her feet, swishing her wand to bring the plates over to her and filling them with steaming, fragrant beef stew, mashed potatoes and salad. When everyone is served, they tuck in happily.

“Harry, that’s delicious!” Ginny exclaims enthusiastically. “Almost as good as Blaise’s cooking, and you don’t even get paid for it!” She gives her boyfriend a wink.

“Slytherins do few things just to be nice,” Blaise turns a bright grin to her. “We’re just practical people, unlike you lot.”

“Can I have more?” Ron asks, holding out his already empty plate.

“Merlin, Ron, did you Vanish your food?” Hermione chastises him.

Among the playful scolding and easy conversation, Harry meets Draco’s eyes.

“It’s very good, Harry,” he tells him. “See, I was right.”

“About what?” Harry’s throat feels tight again.

“The superiority of Muggle cooking. It’s not just about watching a handsome man chop vegetables.”

Harry tries hard not to blush, and probably fails. He hides his face as best as he can into his wine glass, absorbing himself in the aroma of the rich, dark red Bordeaux that Draco brought. It hasn’t been that long since someone called him handsome, but when the compliment comes from Draco it is ten times more believable, and therefore ten times more disconcerting.

There’s a clinking noise at the end of the table, and both Harry and Draco look up at the source of it.

Blaise is holding his glass up.

“I’d like to make a toast,” he says in that deep, rich voice of his. He lifts his glass towards Harry. “Happy birthday, old man. One year closer to thirty.”

Everybody laughs while Hermione interjects, “Come on, Blaise, don’t remind us!”

After everyone has taken a sip of their drink, Harry notices that Blaise hasn’t. Instead, he’s still holding up his glass and Ginny watches him with a rapt expression on her face, and Harry knows what this is about, he _knows_ before they even say a word.

His gut turns to ice, and he simultaneously feels like he's burning.

“Harry, I’d like to thank you. Because if that beautiful girl over here,” he lays his free hand over Ginny’s, “had still been remotely attracted to you, I wouldn’t be here with her tonight. It may be your birthday, but you’ve given _me_ the most wonderful gift of all. And so, everyone…” Blaise lifts his glass. “We’d like to make an announcement,” he tells his friends, but never takes his eyes away from Ginny.

Harry wants to scream and smash things and maybe cry a little. One look at Draco and he knows Draco’s sussed out what is going to happen. He looks like he’s taken a Stunner full in the gut, which is exactly how Harry feels.

“Ginny and I have decided to get married,” Blaise announces, and Ron and Hermione instantly jump on their feet and congratulate them.

Harry forces a smile and a cheer despite the loud buzzing in his skull that blocks out most of what is being said around him. _That’s it_ , he thinks numbly. Ginny and Blaise are getting married. His friends are now paired off, almost down to the last. He knows he’s being a selfish prick, that he should be a hundred percent happy for them. That being single doesn’t mean he’s going to be alone forever. But there’s a tight quality to Draco’s smile as he hugs Blaise, then Ginny, that tells Harry he’s not the only one feeling that way right now.

“Wedding’s in October,” he hears Ginny tell Hermione. “Blaise keeps joking about how the tree leaves will match my hair.”

“There’s also the matter of the wedding party,” Blaise wraps an arm around Ginny’s shoulders, and she lights up immediately. It’s as if Blaise cast a _Lumos_ on her, and Harry is pretty sure Ginny never looked that way when they were together.

Blaise’s dark eyes find Draco’s.

“Draco. Will you be my best man?” Blaise asks, and Draco steps up and hugs him with a wide grin.

“Of course I will, Blaise. I can't believe you even had to ask.”

Ginny takes a deep breath. “Harry, I’d like you to be my best man,” she tells him, and there’s a tentative note in her tone. As if Harry could ever refuse her that.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Thanks, Gin. I’m honoured.”

Ron pretends to be cross. “Ginny, _I_ ’m not your best man?”

“Well, it’s a bit thanks to Harry — and Draco — that Blaise and I are together. So _no_ , Ron — _he_ ’s the man of honour.” Ginny gives Harry a mischievous grin. “Besides, Blaise is right. Sorry Harry, but if we’d still been together, none of this would have happened.”

“Thank fuck for you guys breaking up,” Blaise grabs Harry's shoulder, and Harry can’t help but laugh at that. “I rather like my fiancée, ta ever so.”

“You're very welcome,” Harry rubs a hand over the back of his neck. It’s a strange combination of feelings, that bittersweet joy for his friends’ happiness, that almost-nostalgia for things that he didn’t want, and didn’t happen anyway.

Draco is by his side, gently nudging him with his elbow. “Alright, there?”

“Yeah,” he says. _I will be_ , he thinks. “You?”

“Ecstatic,” he says with a wry smile. “I’m so bloody happy for Blaise. And I’m glad you’re the bride’s best man, so I don’t have to help plan the wedding with a complete imbecile.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiles at the veiled compliment. That’s more like the Draco he knows, and he feels safer in this charted territory. Draco answers him with a smirk.

“You’re welcome, Potter.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is the chapter where the rating of this fic takes on its full meaning.

**_Word out on the street is the devil’s in your kiss  
_ Aerosmith** **_, Cryin’_ **

 

**September 2007**

 

“Honestly, Harry, our friends need a bloody intervention. There’s nothing _not_ useless on that wedding gift list.”

The mediocrity of Blaise and Ginny’s tastes is all Draco’s talked about for days now. At some point Harry got fed up and marched him out of his flat and into the shops. They went to Diagon Alley first, since the bride and groom registered for wizarding as well as Muggle homewares. After Draco claimed he’d rather gouge his eyes out and gift them to the happy couple than purchase anything from the gift list at Cauldron’s Kitchen Essentials, Harry gave up and took him to Harrod’s.

Harry knows they were papped when they arrived on Diagon Alley, what with the bloody paparazzi being everywhere in Wizarding London — he saw a few flashes coming off on their way to the shop — and he wonders what the press will make of his friendship with Draco Malfoy. It’s surely more interesting than the usual stories about Harry going out for dinner with the same old friends or buying a pint at the Leaky. Harry’s kept a lot of headline-worthy events of his recent life out of the wizarding community, and this outing with Draco, however mundane, will be far more interesting than anything he’s done since splitting up with Ginny.

But right now, his only problem is a very rude, very annoyed Draco scrutinising every item in the homeware section of the department store as if it's dirt under the sole of his shoe.

“Could you — keep your voice down, maybe?” Harry chastises him, but he’s barely containing his laughter. There are few things funnier than poking at Draco when he’s affronted in his snobbery.

“But — come on, Harry.” Draco strides over to a display where sets of collapsible skillets glimmer at them. He lifts a hot pink one and shakes it under Harry’s nose with a disgusted pout. “Did Ginevra fuck the brains out of Blaise, that he agreed to let her register for _this_ in _that_ colour?”. He puts the skillet down and points at a Dyson fan heater in the corner. “And what in Merlin's name is _this_?!” He’s almost quivering with outrage, and Harry can’t help himself. He bursts out laughing.

Draco just gapes at him, bristling, which only makes Harry laugh harder — until Draco’s mouth twitches into a reluctant smile and he starts laughing, too.

“What about this?” Harry wipes at his eyes and walks up to a table laid out with more electronics. On closer examination, he discovers they’re some sort of portable karaoke sets, inspired by the ones he sometimes sees musicians use in the London underground. _Sing like a rockstar!_ They claim. _Thousands of songs at the tips of your fingers!_

Draco joins him next to the display. “That looks ludicrous enough,” he says. “Still better than the pink pans, if you want my opinion.”

“I don’t, but you’ve been giving it left and right since this morning, so don’t mind me.”

Draco casts him a scathing look and grabs the microphone of the karaoke set on display. “I’ll sing you a song, that’ll teach you.”

He discreetly taps the machine with his wand and a ridiculously jaunty version of _I Will Survive_ starts playing. Harry lifts a eyebrow in challenge and Draco, undeterred, starts singing into the microphone, never taking his eyes away from Harry. Harry dissolves into helpless giggles.

Draco is in the middle of singing about walking out the door when his voice wavers and he stops short. His hand drops, the microphone dangling from his fingers.

Harry stops laughing and raises a questioning eyebrow. But Draco doesn’t have to answer. An unpleasantly familiar voice says behind him, “Hello, Draco.”

Harry turns and, _yep_. There he is.

Dan, Draco’s ex, standing in front of them in the middle of the homeware section of Harrod’s.

Harry notes belatedly that Dan is holding hands with a good-looking young man — in fact, the bloke looks several years younger than Harry or Draco.

“Hello, Dan.” Draco’s tone could freeze Fiendfyre. “Nice to see you again.”

There’s silence, and Harry looks uncomfortably from Draco, to Dan, to the hot young man by Dan’s side.

“You remember Harry?” Draco offers stiltedly.

“Of course.” Dan nods at Harry. “Harry.”

“Dan.”

A long pause. Harry clears his throat. It seems to startle Dan into action.

“Oh. This is Jeffrey, by the way.” A satisfied little smile appears on his face. “We’re shopping for our new home.” At Draco’s bland look, he elaborates: “We’ve just moved in together.”

“How wonderful. Congratulations,” Draco nods stiffly.

More silence, then Dan turns to his boyfriend — Jeffrey. “Shall we keep going, dear?”. He smirks and claps Draco in the back, and Draco looks like he’s trying very hard not to flinch. “Nice seeing you, Draco.”

Harry dares to look at Draco only when the seemingly happy couple has disappeared from their sight.

Draco is a few shades paler than usual, which is quite a feat, and his eyes are a bit unfocused. Harry links his arm to his, gently dragging him away.

“Come on. We haven’t looked at bedding and linens. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect present over there.”

****

 

Ginny and Blaise’s recently purchased townhouse is filled with half-opened boxes and mounds of furniture waiting to be assembled.

Harry thought helping their friends unpack would be a good idea to take Draco’s mind off their encounter with Dan, but the hard set of Draco’s jaw throughout the process makes him realise it only serves to remind Draco that another one of his friends is happily paired off when he’s still single. So, not the best idea Harry’s had.

And presently, the four of them, Ginny, Blaise, Harry and Draco, are grouped around a coffee table consisting of a wooden cart wheel and a fitted glass top.

Ginny points at it. “This has to go.”

“No bloody way,” Blaise retorts. “Do you even know where this wheel comes from?”

“How could I not? You’ve told this story a million times since I met you!”

“It’s a _Hogwarts_ Thestral cart wheel, Gin. It’s invaluable!”

“It’s invaluably hideous, is what it is,” Ginny crosses her arms. “Either it goes, or I go.”

Blaise turns to Harry and Draco. “Shall we vote?”

Ginny’s hand shoots in the air. “The table goes!”

Blaise looks at Draco. Draco shrugs noncommittally. “The table’s fine, I guess.”

“Ha!” Blaise exclaims, and Ginny huffs, annoyed. “Harry?”

Harry looks at Blaise, then gives an embarrassed little shake of his head. “Sorry, Blaise.”

“Yes!” Ginny punches the air, then turns to Blaise, hands on her hips, all business. “Take it out.”

“Come on, love, can I keep it anyway? Please?” Blaise turns to Draco. “Draco, old man. You like the table, don’t you?”

But Draco rounds on Blaise, his eyes hard as flint, and Blaise steps back, startled.

“You think I care about your stupid table?” Draco snaps. “Let me tell you something, Blaise. And you too, Ginevra. You both listen carefully. It all starts with a stupid little fight — oh, I don’t like this table, oh, your jumper is the wrong colour, ooh, why can't you be home at six every day, honey — and before you know it, it’s all you can see, all the annoying little things and you forget to see the big picture. And the little rows and the make-ups, they trick you into feeling like you’re making progress, when you actually aren’t!” His hands ball into fists, and his voice grows increasingly louder with his next words, until he's practically screaming. “And then when you finally take a step back to look at your relationship, you realise, wait, this is not what I wanted, but by then it’s too late, and when you split up, you will fight one another to death over who gets to keep that absurdly ugly-arsed table that none of you really cares about in the first place!”

Draco stops, breathing hard, and then he turns on his heel and storms out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Ginny and Blaise look stunned, and Harry throws them an contrite glance.

“He ran into Dan the other day,” he apologises, and stomps out after Draco.

He finds him pacing the pavement, hands in his pockets, a few feet away from Blaise and Ginny’s door. He looks like he’s still fuming, still coming down from the sudden rage that gripped him a minute ago. When he sees Harry coming down the stairs to meet him, his murderous expression softens into something slightly embarrassed.

“Care to explain what happened back there?” Harry gestures toward the house. “You weren’t making a lot of sense.”

Draco shrugs sheepishly, looks away. “Yes, I wasn’t. I was an arsehole. Sorry.”

"Yes you were, you bloody drama queen."

Harry walks up to him, and Draco meets his eyes. They just stare at one another for a moment, and for all his bad temper Draco also looks small and vulnerable, and not for the first time, Harry wants to reach out and touch him, but doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says instead, more gently this time. “It’s okay. Our friends getting married — it’s not easy.”

Draco gives him a small, rueful smile. “But it should be, shouldn’t it? I should be entirely happy for them. I shouldn’t be — I don’t know.” He looks away, runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “I think I resent them a little.” His eyes meet Harry’s. “How much of a prick does that make me?”

Harry nods. “As much as me, I guess. I’m not proud of it either, but part of me wishes my friends would all stay single forever, and we can just hang out and drink at the pub and go out together on weekdays and basically all live like we’re twenty-three forever.”

Draco exhales a laugh. “We’re pathetic, aren’t we?”

“A bit, yeah.” Harry looks at him, and seriousness seeps through his tone when he asks: “Are you... not over it? Your break-up with Dan, I mean.”

“It’s not — “ Draco stops himself, thinks about it. “I’m over it. _I am_. I don’t miss Dan at all. I don’t think I ever felt anything real for him, or at least anything deep enough to make the kind of commitment he was asking of me. I guess… I guess he wasn’t the one. I’m still looking for the one.”

Draco looks up at Harry, and the earnestness Harry finds in his grey eyes stabs at his heart. He fights against the tightness in his throat, swallows painfully.

When no words come, Draco sighs quietly and says: “I just don’t like feeling as though I’m the last one left behind. It’s not rational, I know. But it is what it is.” He turns back to Blaise and Ginny’s townhouse. “I should go back there and apologise. Just because my love life is incredibly frustrating right now doesn’t make it okay to take it out on my friends.”

“Even if they’re so sickeningly happy they make one feel sorry for oneself?” Harry chuckles, eventually meeting Draco’s eyes with some effort.

“ _Especially_ if they’re sickeningly happy,” Draco smirks. “That’s what being a good friend is, Potter. Loving your friends when they’re at their most infuriating.”

Just as Draco and Harry make it back to the front steps of the house, Blaise bursts out, the cartwheel table Leviosa’ed behind him.

“See? The sacrifices I already make for that woman, I swear.”

Ginny looks at him fondly, leaning against the door frame.

“Just so you know, if we ever get divorced, this fucking table will never, _ever_ be something I fight you for.”

  
****

The next few weeks go by in a flurry of visits to the tailor, animated discussions about the flowers best matched to the wedding colour scheme — in the end, Ginny wins, her choice of white and soft pink peonies approved by Neville — “It’s a symbol of happy marriage!” he tells a frustrated Blaise — and several inspections of the wedding venue, a small Gothic church in Mayfair which looks half-abandoned to Muggles but is in reality used for wizarding weddings year-round, as the wedding official assures them. The party after the ceremony will be held in the grand salon of a newly-opened modern wizarding hotel just off Diagon Alley. It’s all beautiful and tasteful, yet just a tad untraditional. Just perfect for Blaise and Ginny, a couple consisting of a successful entrepreneur and a sportswoman.

Blaise’s stag night and Ginny’s hen night take place three weeks before the wedding.

“I’d invite you to my hen night, Harry, since you’re my best man, but I’m sure you’d find it pretty boring,” Ginny assures Harry.

He has to agree — Hermione told him Ginny’s bridal party is going to spend the day at a cosy spa in Sussex, and then they’ll all Apparate back to London for the traditional pub crawl and drunk dancing at a club.

Not that Harry doesn’t like the idea of being surrounded by pretty women. In addition to Hermione and Luna, Ginny’s friends include several Holyhead Harpies players and a former classmate of Ginny’s who went on to be a model.

But he’s not interested in dating these days. At least not these girls.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He’d rather spend an evening with his friends, and yes, those _happen_ to include Draco. Draco’s just his friend, and any longing he might feel whenever he’s near him is only a by-product of the tensions inherent in planning a wedding for their good friends and in both of them being single, attractive men who happen to be attracted to men.

Blaise’s stag night is a classy, quiet affair, something Harry would not have suspected his gang of Slytherin friends to be capable of. Classy, maybe — _quiet_ , certainly not.

They all meet at _Balthazar_ for dinner, where Draco made reservations for a private wizarding dining room just for the groom and his friends. Harry had no idea the place was co-owned by a wizard, and he has to admit it’s the perfect restaurant for Blaise: the atmosphere is resolutely gentlemanly, dark wood and brass and leather-upholstered chairs and seats, glistening silverware and wine glasses on every table, a beautiful bar and walls of wine bottles. Ron was invited, as Blaise’s fiancée’s brother, but he had to decline the invitation due to Molly Weasley freaking out about table placements and Ron being the only one available on short notice to reassure her — evidently, they had collectively decided to shield the bride and groom from any unnecessary stress before the wedding. Harry expects to feel weird around Blaise’s other friends, but the evening is actually quite nice, and if Harry was worried about attracting unwanted attention, it’s not the case at all.

Everybody’s focus is on the groom-to-be, and Theo Nott, Pansy, Melusine and Draco take turns telling embarrassing stories about their friend, who waves them off with a booming laugh.

Any other time, Harry would have been delighted to hear some of those stories, but Draco is sitting next to him, and at some point during dinner, his knee bumps into Harry’s and then it stays there. Who knew that the simple press of Draco’s leg against his could cause his heart to thud so loudly in his ears that it blocks out the sound of surrounding conversation?

But it’s probably just involuntary on Draco’s part, isn’t it? Harry decides to test his hypothesis, while everyone’s howling with laughter at one of Pansy’s stories about Blaise’s mum trying to set Blaise and Pansy up for the umpteenth time. He takes his wine glass in one hand, trying to appear blasé, and he pushes his knee out a bit, imperceptibly pressing his thigh into Draco’s.

There’s a second where Draco doesn’t move, and Harry thinks, with a rush of disappointment, that he has imagined the closeness.

But then Draco presses his leg back against Harry’s, and the confirmation of what is happening sends a bolt of excitement right down Harry’s spine.

He casts a surreptitious glance at Draco out of the corner of his eye. Draco looks completely absorbed in the witty conversation going on around the table, laughing at all the right times, sipping his red wine, the picture of casual nonchalance. But there’s a small half-smile on his lips, thrilling like a secret, and Harry is suddenly overwhelmed with the realisation that he is _fucked_.

He is truly and utterly _fucked_.

In the dim lights of this French bistrot in the middle of Soho, Draco Malfoy is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he is all Harry wants tonight. In that moment, Harry knows he will let him do to him whatever he pleases. The back of his mind unhelpfully reminds him that this is not what one’s supposed to feel for one’s friend, and he shakes the thought away. His instinct has taken over, and he couldn't care less about rationality.

Because now that he’s admitted it to himself, he’s going to go along with it, isn’t he? Nothing else will take the idea out of his mind, now that it’s so firmly planted that Harry’s half-hard just from Draco’s warm thigh against his. Draco, who possibly wants the same thing that Harry wants — whatever that may be.

 

After dinner, they all walk to _Phoenix A.M._ , a new club that opened earlier that year on Diagon. Everyone is much louder than they were at the restaurant, and Harry thinks it might be a good thing because then nobody will notice that he's gone quiet. Pansy’s already a little tipsy from the cocktails and red wine she’s drunk at _Balthazar_ and she clings to Blaise’s arm, proclaiming loudly that _Phoenix A.M._ is the best bloody club in all Wizarding London.

“Someone shut that woman up,” Draco laughs behind them, “unless we want to start Obliviating Muggles in the middle of Blaise's stag night!”

Harry chuckles and trails behind the group of raucous Slytherins, trying to organise the jumble of his thoughts and feelings, but Draco falls into step with him instead, smashing his reasonable plans to pieces.

Harry expects him to say something, but Draco remains quiet. They follow Blaise, Pansy, Melusine and Theo in comfortable silence, only interrupted every once in a while by a shared glance and the small smile of promise that plays on Draco’s lips.

Harry’s heart keeps wanting to escape his ribcage, or at least burst it open, it’s beating so loud. He’s never felt anything like this — this anticipation, like the second before a kiss, only drawn up for minutes, for hours, for bloody _months_ , if Harry’s perfectly honest with himself. There hasn’t been anyone else than Draco for months, maybe years, and Harry doesn’t want to think about _that_ , he doesn’t want to think about the implications and what it means for their friendship. He doesn’t know what he wants, but something’s going to have to give, because the back of Draco’s hand brushes his, soft and warm and secret, and Harry nearly gasps, because just that tiny touch of Draco’s is the most erotic thing he’s experienced.

Pansy and Blaise appear next to Harry and they push him in front of their little group when they arrive at the club, bypassing the long queue at the front. “The benefits of inviting Harry Potter to your stag night,” Pansy hoots when they get inside, and it’s the last thing Harry hears before the deafening beat of the music, so loud he can barely make out the lyrics, shakes his bones and vanishes all thought from his brain.

He follows the others in a daze as they take a table and Blaise orders several bottles of alcohol with a flick of his hand. Draco leans in and tells Blaise something that makes him laugh, and his pale hair glows pink, blue, green in quick succession as the stroboscopic lights of the club flash over them.

“Excuse me,” Harry gets up abruptly. He’s choking on his feelings, and he has to get away. Just for a second. The Slytherins look up at him, surprised, but he strides off to the bar without looking back.

Once he’s there, he takes a stool and sits down heavily, staring at the rows of bottles and the barmen alternatively mixing Muggle and wizarding drinks, flipping shakers and stirring colourful liquid in martini glasses with their wands. He takes a moment to catch his breath, willing his brain and heart to slow down. The music pounds against his body, matching the rhythm of his swirling, helpless thoughts.

Someone grabs the stool next to him and a second later Draco takes a seat, glancing at Harry almost with concern.

“Hey,” he touches Harry’s arm with the tip of his long fingers. “You okay?”

Harry looks at Draco’s fingers where they rest against the fabric of his shirt, then he leans over and nearly yells in Draco’s ear to be heard over the din:

“Do you ever think we’ll have what Blaise and Ginny have?”

Draco withdraws his hand, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again. Harry follows the movement of Draco’s Adam’s apple along his long, pale throat.

“What, you and me?” Draco asks. “I mean, _separately_?”

Harry gives a noncommittal hum that he’s pretty sure Draco can’t hear over the blast of the bass. He’s not sure what he meant with his question, and he’s letting Draco decide where he wants to take this.

Draco looks away with a disparaging smile that looks more like a sneer. He shrugs.

“I don’t think so. You, maybe. But I’m pretty sure no one will ever want me like that, Potter.”

"You're joking, right?" Harry asks him, incredulous. "Draco... you're a fucking catch."

Draco snorts. "No, I'm not. Everyone I've ever been with knows it. I'm just too... too _much_."

Harry stares at Draco’s profile, his firm jaw, his tense shoulders, his right hand absently stroking the inside of his left forearm, the swathe of silver hair falling into his cristal-chip eyes.

And the little rational thought he still retained abandons him. He lifts his hand and touches the back of his knuckles to Draco’s cheek, gently, reverently.

Draco turns slowly, wary eyes scrutinising Harry in the dim lights of the club.

They widen when Harry leans in, cups Draco’s jaw in one hand, and looks into his eyes for a split second before his gaze falls on his lips.

And then he kisses him.

It’s a slow, hesitant kiss, and Harry’s heart almost drops to the floor when Draco doesn’t respond at first. But then Draco parts his lips with a sigh Harry feels more than hears, and he dives in, tilting his head, caressing Draco’s soft lips with his own, and Draco places his palm over Harry’s heart, not pushing him away, just feeling him, and it’s just _perfect_.

Draco smiles against his lips, and Harry smiles back. It makes kissing more difficult but none of them seem to care. Harry’s heart soars, and he slides down from his stool, and Draco parts his legs just enough for Harry to stand between them and press close to him, never breaking the kiss. The hot, soft slide of Draco’s tongue against his own tears a low moan from Harry, leaving him almost mindless with desire and the need to have _more_ , more of this, more of Draco. He grips Draco’s arms, barely managing to stand upright, flooded with pleasure and want. They’re surrounded by a wall of music, by flashing multicoloured lights and the writhing bodies of the people moving and dancing around them, and it’s the most fantastic kiss Harry’s ever had.

When they break for air, Draco’s hair is deliciously dishevelled, his lips pink and wet from their kiss, and his pupils so wide his eyes are almost black.

He presses his forehead to Harry’s, breathing deep.

“Fucking _hell_ , Harry,” he whispers. Harry smiles like a loon.

When he rolls his hips against Draco’s thigh, he feels Draco's sharp exhale against his face, and then Draco pulls him closer, the unmistakable hard length of his own erection pressing against Harry’s hip.

“Do you… Are you...?” Harry asks roughly, perfectly aware that he's stammering and incapable of finishing a sentence, and completely unable to care. Having Draco is all he can think about, and the closer, the faster, the better.

Draco shakes his head in mock disbelief, and he breathes a shaky laugh. “Eloquent as always, Potter.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Is eloquence really what you're going to complain about right now?"

"I'm not complaining," Draco smirks in the half-darkness. "I actually like that I've apparently rendered you incoherent with a kiss."

"And what are you going to do about it?"

Draco's expression turns intent, and he takes Harry’s face in his hands, his palms hot and strong against Harry’s cheeks. He leans in and kisses him again, scorching and hot and a little desperate, teeth and tongues and hands sliding into hair, and when they break the kiss he whispers the answer in Harry's ear.

“I'm going to take you home.”

Harry nods against Draco's cheek. He holds onto him as tight as he can, and he lets the pull of Apparition and darkness take them away.

 

****

 

Harry’s been to Draco’s flat once, maybe twice since they became friends.

The place looks so much like the real estate version of Draco — clean, almost obsessively neat, and covered from floor to ceiling in shelves full of books, CDs and enough vinyl records for their owner to qualify as a complete hipster — that it would be almost funny, if Harry was in the mood to laugh.

As they Apparate in Draco’s small living room, half tumbling to the floor in their haste to get back to kissing and grabbing at each other’s clothes, he can tell he’s decidedly not in a mood to laugh.

But rather to drop to his knees and suck Draco off right then and there.

So he does.

“Oh my god. _Harry_.” Draco lets out an incredulous gasp, looking down as Harry lowers himself on his knees in front of him. The look on Draco’s face is pure amazement and it steals a wicked smile from Harry. He has one hand on Draco’s hip and the other is fumbling with the fastenings of his grey wool trousers. One more button and Draco’s erection pushes out, straining against the cotton of his black boxers.

Harry licks his lips, overwhelmed by the rush of desire he feels for that man, who's looking at him as though he can't quite believe his luck, as though Harry is the most amazing thing he's ever seen. He's never wanted anyone as much as he wants Draco in that moment, so much that it blinds him, so much that his impulses take over his mind.

He pushes Draco's boxers and trousers down in one swift motion, and never looking away from Draco’s eyes, he takes his cock in his mouth.

It’s such a cliché thing to think, but Draco tastes _divine_ , a little salty and musky and bitter but most of all, that unique, warm, sun-kissed scent of skin that Harry has come to associate with _him_. Harry wants to close his eyes and just _feel_ , but he also wants to watch Draco's face through his smudged glasses as he takes him apart with his mouth and tongue. And the sounds he makes — _God_. Harry feels himself getting even harder just from the sound of Draco’s quickened breaths and little groans as he struggles to keep still, not to thrust into Harry’s mouth until Harry’s ready.

And then Draco slips his fingers into Harry’s hair and they both moan from the sensation, and Harry takes him deeper. Draco gives an experimental push of his cock against the back of Harry’s throat, and Harry lets his throat contract around him, so blinded by lust he doesn't even feel the discomfort.

“This —" Draco warns, already panting above him, “is going to be the fastest blowjob ever.”

Harry stops himself from laughing around Draco’s cock. He pulls away with one long sweep of his tongue and a dirty pop of his mouth and smirks, looking into Draco’s unnaturally wide eyes as Draco keeps stroking his hair languidly. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Am I really that good?”

“Harry,” Draco shakes his head with a lascivious smile, “you have no idea, have you?”

“Better get back to work, then,” and he opens his mouth, tongues at Draco’s crown, takes him in again.

And Draco was right, really. Harry’s just started sucking him in earnest, bobbing his head so that his nose almost comes against the tangle of Draco’s pubic hair with every stroke down, when Draco’s hands grab more firmly into his hair. “Harry,” he chokes. Harry doesn’t stop, and he fumbles with his own flies as he sucks Draco’s cock down to the root, then licks it to the tip again, keeping a steady rhythm that has Draco shaking.

He pulls his own prick free, and he’s never been this hard, not from a blowjob, never. But it’s Draco, and he’s almost unbearably hot, his stupidly posh voice grinding out the most uninhibited, shameless sounds of pleasure Harry’s ever heard, “Harry — fuck, you’re so fucking hot on your fucking knees, yes, _yes_ , I’m going to come — keep doing this, I’m going to —”

Draco’s words dissolve into a loud groan and he comes in Harry’s mouth, long, hot, bitter pulses that Harry swallows with a moan of pleasure and satisfaction as he wanks himself like never before. He pulls away and presses his forehead against Draco’s hip as Draco cards his fingers in his hair and murmurs soft, sated encouragements to him, “Do it, Harry, oh my _God_ — you're amazing.” And it takes Harry no more than half a dozen pulls for him to jerk into his own fist, groaning and smearing long stripes of come across Draco’s immaculate hardwood floor.

They stay like this for what feels like several minutes, Harry panting against Draco’s hip, Draco’s breathing slowly above him, the rhythm of his hand moving back and forth in his hair gentle and calming.

When he feels like he can speak again, Harry mumbles hoarsely, “I wonder if Blaise is having a good stag night.”

Draco bursts out laughing and slides his hands from Harry’s hair down to his shoulders, pushing him lightly to look at his face.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“I just hope for Ginny’s sake that he’s not having as good a night as we are, but still.”

Draco pulls him up, putting his hands on his hips and bringing him close. “You’re unbelievable.”

“If you’re referring to my blowjob talents, you’re welcome,” Harry smirks.

“I was not, but that, too.”

Laughing, Draco pulls up his pants and trousers and does them up. Harry zips up his jeans, straightens his glasses and looks around them for the first time since their Apparition.

“Sorry I made a mess of your floor.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I have a few other places you could make a mess of,” Draco waggles his eyebrows.

Harry grins and leans in, almost kissing him. “Yeah? Wanna show me?”

Draco’s eyes darken, and then he’s pulling Harry by the hand, down the hall and into a darkened room. He murmurs ‘Lumos’ and snaps his fingers, and a small round lamp on the floor close to the door lights up the bedroom.

It’s simply furnished, like the rest of Draco’s flat: a big double bed takes up most of the space in the room, a dresser stands across from it, and the wall opposite the window is almost entirely covered by a giant poster of the album cover of _London Calling_ by The Clash.

He barely has time to notice anything else before Draco pushes him onto the bed where he lands on his back, legs half-dangling from the edge of the mattress. He scrambles to a half-seated position, lying back on his elbows, letting a slow smirk tug at his lips. Draco moves to stand between his parted legs, and he looks down at him with a lopsided smile that has Harry’s prick twitching to attention again.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes, I think,” Harry says, gesturing toward Draco’s perfectly put-together outfit, seemingly unruffled by Harry’s previous unceremonious treatment. He sits up and unfastens Draco’s trousers again, ignoring Draco’s half-hearted protests, and lets the soft fabric drop to the floor. Draco’s long legs look even better like that, anyway.

But Harry stops in his tracks when he looks back at Draco’s face.

Draco’s mouth is pressed in a thin line, his eyes avoiding Harry’s guiltily. He looks as though he’s just had a sudden, horrible realisation, and Harry feels the panic well in his gut.

“Draco. What’s the matter?” He reaches out, touches the cuff of Draco’s shirt sleeve, and Draco almost flinches away.

And Harry finally gets it.

_Draco’s left sleeve._

They're going to see each other naked, with everything that it entails.

He looks into Draco’s eyes, pale even in the darkness of his room, forcing eye contact. He feels his hands tremble against the blanket, but he won’t let Draco see that.

“I want to see you,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper, but steady. “I don’t care. What you look like. I want to see _all of you_.”

They both stare at each other for a long moment, the silence hanging between them like a battle of wills, like a battle against Draco’s secrets and shame. Then Draco’s torn expression shifts, his eyes narrow, his mouth sets into a firm line.

“You’re _unbelievable_ , Potter,” he whispers as he raises shaking hands and starts unbuttoning his white shirt, first at the throat, then down his chest, and finally lifting his right arm then his left to undo the cuff links.

“So I’ve been told,” Harry answers just as quietly, as reverently, sitting up on the bed.

Draco is standing between his parted thighs still, his slim hips bracketed by Harry’s knees, and Harry lifts his hands to Draco’s open shirt, sliding it down his shoulders, his arms, fingers caressing his hot, soft skin in their wake.

Harry vainly wills his heart to slow down as for the first time he takes in the sight of Draco's body.

His wide shoulders, his lean chest that narrows down to a flat stomach and jutting hipbones. The confirmation of the terrible scars he feared he’d find on Draco’s chest, long and white and ropey, criss-crossing his otherwise flawless skin. A few others that he had no idea about, and doesn’t really want to ask about yet: what looks like deep scratches from an animal on his right shoulder, several round pink scars like cigarette burns on his left side. The pale outline of the skull and snake on the inside of his left forearm.

He lifts his hand, traces the Mark with fingers that are remarkably steady, considering the roar of his heartbeat in every one of his pulse points. He takes Draco’s delicate wrist in his hand and kisses the soft flesh inside it, trails kisses up his arm, onto the scar of his teenage mistake, into the crook of his elbow. He can hear Draco’s breath catch and quicken. When he looks into his eyes again, there’s an emotion in there, one that hurts Harry’s heart in the best way.

“Harry…” he starts. He lifts his hand to Harry’s hair and strokes it gently away from his forehead, his thumb brushing against the old lightening scar.

“Come here, love.” Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and pulls him down on the bed, on top of him. The weight of him is a marvelous thing. He rolls them to their side and they lay on top of the blanket, kissing and running their hands all over one another’s bodies. Harry’s still dressed, and Draco makes a small noise of protest when his exploring hands meet the rough denim of Harry’s jeans.

“Now who’s wearing too many clothes?” he grumbles against Harry’s jaw.

“I thought I wanted _you_ naked,” Harry slides his fingers underneath the waistband of Draco’s boxers. “You just like to be contrary, don’t you?”

“Hmm, yes— Have you met me, Potter?” Draco snorts, and Harry kisses him again, wriggling out of his jeans.

They break the kiss for Draco to pull Harry’s shirt up and away, knocking his glasses off on the way, and then they’re back at it immediately, drawn to each other like magnets. Draco touches his tongue to Harry’s when Harry parts his lips, the contact soft and wet and hot. Draco grabs Harry’s wrists and rolls him onto his back again, nipping at his jaw, his neck, his collarbones, leaving bruising kisses that make Harry gasp. Harry’s hands grab Draco’s arse, and he spares a thought for all the times he’s stared at it, wondering what it would feel like under his touch. He’s glad to confirm that it feels just as perfect as it looks.

Once more, he tries to push Draco’s boxers out of the way, and Draco laughs against his chest.

“Impatient, are we?”

“You have no fucking idea,” Harry growls.

Smiling, Draco looks down at him, and he’s so beautiful Harry’s breath catches. His pale hair is falling in his eye, the beam from the streetlight just outside his window catching in the silver strands, shadows playing on his face, highlighting his cheekbones. He’d let Draco do whatever he pleases in that moment.

Merlin, he _wants_ Draco to do whatever he pleases with him.

He swallows hard and spreads his thighs a little wider underneath Draco. Draco strokes his fingers through Harry’s hair again with such obvious relish, Harry suspects it’s something he must have been dying to do for a while.

They gaze at one another in a loaded silence, their previous arousal building up again slowly with the featherlight touch of Draco’s hand in Harry’s hair, Harry’s possessive grasp on Draco’s arse. Draco’s playful expression turns more serious.

Quietly, he asks: “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “I am.”

“Harry, we’re friends, and…”

“Draco,” Harry sighs and pulls Draco down for a kiss. “Please. Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

Draco’s soft gasp is all the approval he needs. Their kiss turns hot again, passionate, and Harry moans, rolling his hips up against Draco’s, lining up the hard length of their erections straining against the fabric of their pants.

“What do you want?” Draco asks against his lips again.

“You know what I want,” Harry growls. “I want _you_.” He pulls back, catching Draco’s gaze with his. “Fuck me, Draco.”

Draco stares at him for a second, his swollen lips parted, his breath caressing Harry’s face. Then he smiles at him, and it’s the softest, most open smile he’s ever seen on Draco’s face, erasing years and years of sneers turned in Harry’s direction.

“You know, it’s going to be difficult to go back to being friends after tonight,” Draco tells him, and Harry can’t tell if he’s teasing him or not. But Draco being Draco, he supposes it's probably teasing.

“Meh. I’ll take the chance.”

Draco laughs, deep and happy, and Harry grins and pulls him back down for a kiss.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**_True love waits in haunted attics  
_ Radiohead** **_, True Love Waits_ **

 

Harry wakes up in a bed that feels deliciously familiar for a bed that’s not his.

The pale sunlight that hits his eyes when he manages to blink them open means it must be early morning, maybe 7 or 8 o’clock, way earlier than he expected to wake up after sleeping so little.

He stretches languidly and finds that his body is sore and that his muscles ache in places where they usually don’t — thighs, lower back, biceps, arse — and then the night before comes back in a rush of images, colours and sounds.

 _Draco_ , he thinks.

The sense memory of it hits him like a Bludger in the gut.

He turns his head on a pillow that smells like sun-kissed skin, sweat and sex, and his breath catches at the sight that greets him.

There’s a sleeping Draco Malfoy lying on his stomach next to him, face half-buried in his pillow, looking more peaceful than Harry’s ever seen him. His pale blond hair is rumpled beyond decency, a swathe of golden strands obscuring part of his face. The blanket only covers the lower half of his body, exposing the long expense of pale skin and lean muscles that moved so flawlessly against Harry’s just a few hours before…

Harry is probably glowing from all the mind-blowing sex he’s had. He’s fairly certain of it. It’s pathetic to think along those lines after just one night with a new lover, but last night was, hands down, the best sex of his life.

He’s twenty-seven, and he’s just had the best sex of his life with Draco Malfoy.

He doesn’t know if it’s because it’s _Draco Malfoy_ — the sheer impossibility of it, of shagging the man he'd once hated with a passion, making it illicitly hot — or if it’s just because it’s _Draco_ , whose easy sensuality naturally translates into the open, uninhibited lover Harry discovered last night. Memories of Draco’s hands and mouth and cock and wicked smiles assail him again, and he all but groans with the sudden shock of arousal they send through his body.

 

Last night, Draco laid him on the bed and took out a small jar of lube and a few condoms from his bedside drawer.

“I know there are spells,” he apologised, “but I’ve only had sex with Muggles, so… I don’t know them.” Harry cupped his face between his hands and kissed him until Draco’s embarrassed blush turned again into one of desire.

Draco slowly worked him open, fingertips brushing against the rim of his hole first, making him shiver and buck into the touch, stroking him until he relaxed enough for Draco to slip a finger, then another inside. Just the sensation, the knowledge that Draco was doing this to him, had Harry writhe and clutch at the sheets and moan louder than he’d ever done for anyone else.

He had to admit, Draco might not know how to do this by magic, but his Muggle technique was good enough for Harry.

More than, really.

“Draco, ah — I’m ready. Come on, I'm ready,” Harry gasped as Draco curled his fingers once again inside him, brushing against his prostate and lighting his body with blinding sparks of want, the likes of which he'd forgotten he could experience. Draco had been fucking his fingers inside him for a while, getting him wet and pliant and adrift with pleasure. It felt amazing, but he was ready for more.

“How do you want me?” Draco breathed against Harry’s collarbone, his face flushed and his forehead beaded with sweat. He kept his fingers moving inside him.

“I want to look at you,” Harry answered, equally breathless, feeling powerful and hot and bolder than he’d ever felt during sex. “Want to ride you until I see you come.”

With a harsh exhale, Draco's eyes flared and he slipped his fingers out slowly, obediently rolling on his back. Harry settled over him, hands roaming his scarred chest, fingers catching on a nipple, making Draco arch into his touch and sending shivers of desire down Harry’s spine.

He took Draco’s cock into his fist, steadying it and stroking it a few times until he wrenched an almost-sob from Draco. With a smirk, he aligned Draco's erection with his loosened rim, then pushed down slowly onto it, taking the time to adjust to the intrusion, letting the burn turn into something that sparked intense waves of _too much_ and _not enough_ inside him, making it hard to breathe for a second.

Draco’s hand on his thigh grounded him in the moment, helped him relax, and with the condom and the lube, the last few inches of his cock slid inside him easily.

When Draco was fully seated inside they both took a moment to catch their breath, their eyes locked together. Harry smiled down at Draco and Draco grabbed his hands, pulling him closer and twining their fingers together. Harry’s olive skin looked several shades darker than usual, enclosed in Draco’s long, pale fingers.

“This is it,” Draco whispered, and Harry’s gaze caught the darker lines of the Mark on his arm, pale against the slate-coloured sheets. “No regrets?” Draco asked then.

Harry shook his head. “None at all. I want this.”

 _God, yes._ He wanted him, wanted him, wanted him.

And he wanted to show him now, and so he started moving, upward then down, grinding down on Draco’s prick, opening for him, the sensation foreign and almost too intense until it turned into pure pleasure, lighting sparks behind Harry’s eyelids and shaking him to the core with every thrust of Draco’s body inside his.

Draco was making the most beautiful, shameless sounds under him, spurring him on, lifting his arse to meet Harry halfway and push deeper. He was the most gorgeous person Harry had ever had in his bed — or in anyone’s bed, for that matter. He briefly wondered if the sex felt this wonderful because he knew the person he was having sex with so well, or if it was just because it was Draco, and everything they’d ever done together — whether they fought or laughed or talked aimlessly while walking along the streets of London — had always had this burning intensity to it.

But then all thoughts were obliterated when Draco moved just so and found the angle that brushed his cock against Harry’s prostate, tearing a shuddering moan from Harry. He wrapped his hand around Harry’s prick then, and wanked him in time with his thrusts until Harry cried out and came all over his stomach and fist, clenching around Draco’s cock. He draped himself over Draco as the aftershocks of his orgasm faded, still moving in time with Draco, his nose pressed against Draco's long neck, inhaling the scent of his heated skin and murmuring sated encouragements, telling him how much he wanted to see him come, how beautiful he looked with Harry taking him apart.

Draco pushed into him three, four more times and he came with an groan that sounded a lot like Harry’s name, clutching Harry’s hips like a drowning man.

 

Harry felt so boneless afterwards that he wouldn’t have thought either of them had the energy for a second round. But after lying in Draco’s arms for a while, not talking, just kissing, their kisses went from soft and tender to hungry and demanding again in a matter of minutes. He had no idea how he’d found himself on his hands and knees then, his hard prick smacking against his stomach while Draco thrust inside him deep and fast. Draco fucked him so hard he had to push his hand against the headboard to keep his balance. Well honestly, it wasn’t all that surprising. He'd only had it coming, taunting Draco, groaning for him to _fuck him harder, for fuck’s sake._

This time, Draco almost immediately found the angle that reduced Harry to a incoherent, swearing mess, and Harry came loudly only a minute later, his cock pulsing his release without even a hand to himself. “ _Fuck_ , Harry, did you just—” Draco groaned, wrapping himself over Harry’s back and holding him tight while he rode out his own orgasm. “Fuck, that was so _hot_.”

 

More than anything, it’s the memory of Draco’s words, even whispered through a haze of lust and sated desire, that leaves Harry breathless.

In the peaceful morning light filtering through the shades, he wants to reach out and touch Draco’s skin, run his fingers down his back, over the shallow ridges of his ribs. Draco’s paleness could easily look unappealing on anyone else. But instead, the alabaster quality of his skin makes him look like a dream, and it reminds Harry of the statues of Greek gods he saw at the British Museum with his class on a field trip, at the age of ten.

The scars are almost unnoticeable when one is only looking at Draco’s back.

Late last night, after they laid satisfied and smiling against each other’s skin, Harry ran his hand over Draco’s Mark, stroking almost absent-mindedly, and asked, “What do you tell your lovers about this?”

He could tell Draco was reluctantly allowing Harry's touch; after all, it was the first time he’d even let Harry see it, let alone touch it, and they’d been friends for years.

But Harry realised, with probably as much surprise as Draco, that he didn’t really mind. The Mark was a symbol of evil, but Draco very decidedly wasn’t, and Harry knew that. After all these years, he could tell the difference.

“I don’t — I don’t tell them anything,” Draco sighed eventually. “They all ask, of course. I just tell them it’s a tattoo. It's a mistake I made when I was younger, and I usually leave it at that.”

Harry thought about it some more, and asked: “But what about the wizards? Don’t they ever — _oh_.” He rose onto his elbows and looked at Draco with wide eyes. “Right… You’ve never slept with a wizard before.”

Draco eyed him warily, caught between annoyance and embarrassment, and Harry’s grin widened. “I’m your first. Oh my god, I _am_ , aren't I? Does that mean... I took your _wizard-virginity?_ ”

Draco let the smile he was fighting back break through and he shoved Harry back against the mattress.

“Shut _up_ , Potter!” he laughed, and he settled over Harry, kissing him, their magic rippling at the surface of their skin, warm and sweet, as though wanting to merge.

"Does that make me special?" Harry grinned.

"You idiot. Do you even have to ask?" Draco murmured, touching his nose to Harry's.

Harry trailed a finger on of the bigger, uglier scars his foolish Sectumsempra had left on Draco’s body.

Draco covered his hand with his. “The way I see it,” he murmured, “I was marked by the two most powerful wizards of my time.” He slid his left arm on the mattress next to Harry’s face, the Dark Mark almost faded but still starkly visible on his white skin. “The bad and the good.” Harry kissed him, stroked a thumb across his cheekbone. “It reminds me that I have the potential to be both, and every day I make an effort to deliberately choose which one. Which one I want to be.”

A little after, they went at it again, Harry fucking Draco this time, his body moving over Draco’s as Draco wrapped his legs around his hips and his arms around his shoulders, their eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Harry was still a little sore from rounds one and two, so this was perfect, sex when the edge had already been taken off, thrusting almost lazily inside Draco, their orgasms building slowly, seamlessly, and with such force it took them both by surprise.

If Harry didn’t know any better, he would have said it felt like making love, their movements intense and sweet, their hands loving and soft against each other’s bodies. The connection was something Harry had never felt, not with any of the many lovers he’d had in the past, and it left him feeling raw, exposed and shy, despite the deep pleasure coursing through his veins.

When he pulled out, and cleaning spells were whispered, they curled up against one another. Harry pushed his nervous thoughts away, knowing he would examine them later, and Draco’s weight in his arms was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

 

And now it’s morning, and he’s lying here in this bed, thinking these thoughts about Draco, and Harry’s suddenly hit with how _weird_ it is. _It’s weird_. Harry’s reaction is so strong, he’s taken aback by the force of it. He’s lying in bed next to _Draco._ _Draco Malfoy._ Who used to be his childhood nemesis. And now is his _friend_. And all these facts come crashing down at once: what would his fourteen-year-old self think of him fucking his worst enemy? What would yesterday’s Harry think of him fucking one of his very best friends?

His head hurts.

He grabs his glasses from the floor and shoves them on his face, pushes the blanket away in a state of near-panic and gets off the bed. “Loo,” he mutters, and heads outside the bedroom to find the bathroom. Once inside, he goes for a slash, locking the door behind him with a swish of his wand which was mercifully easy to find on top of a heap of clothes on the floor beside Harry’s side of the bed.

When he’s done, he catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looks blissfully well-shagged, his naked body and pink cheeks giving off the glowing satiation of fantastic sex, all except his eyes that look like he’s just witnessed a bunch of kids getting run over by a carriage pulled by rabid Thestrals.

He shakes himself. “Shower,” he says, and steps inside the shower cubicle. The hot spray is soothing to his aching muscles, and he takes the time to soap himself thoroughly, ignoring his half-erection for now.

If he was hoping to escape his thoughts in the shower, he was sorely mistaken. All he can think of is Draco. Draco naked. Draco, naked, following him under the pounding water, kissing him, wet skin against wet skin. Maybe dropping to his knees and helping Harry get clean… really clean… before getting him dirty again. And it’s really not helping.

Harry feels a pang of guilt at the thought. He should stop this in its tracks before it gets worse. Draco is his friend now. He likes that very much. He doesn’t want to ruin in. And he hopes last night won’t ruin it. However amazing the sex was.

He steps out of the shower and dries himself with a spell. It’s not as thorough as using a towel, but Harry doesn’t have the courage to go through Draco’s closet to find a fresh one, so the spell will have to do. He walks out of the bathroom, and finds Draco still asleep, in the exact same position that Harry left him. Despite his slightly panicked thoughts from a moment ago, his heart swells with fondness for that man, who trusts Harry enough to sleep so soundly next to him, when he no doubt has the same trust issues as anyone who’s been in that bloody war.

He grabs his clothes off the floor and gets dressed as quietly and quickly as he can.

When he’s giving the room one last once-over, Draco stirs and opens a sliver of eye to regard Harry. A slow, happy smile spreads on his face at the sight of Harry standing in his room.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft and sleep-rough.

“Hey,” Harry can’t help but smile back, even though he hates himself for his confused feelings. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

Draco rises on one elbow, looking at him bleary-eyed. “D’you want to stay for breakfast?”

“Sorry, I can't.” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, cringing at the awkwardness in his voice. “I have… I have plans. I’m meeting with Hermione for — wedding stuff.”

He’s making it up, but he supposes Hermione _will_ be the person he goes to after he leaves Draco’s flat. Hermione will know what to do.

“Oh.” Draco looks disappointed. Why does he look disappointed? He should be delighted that Harry’s hitting the road. They’re friends who’ve just slept together — no need to pretend this is anything other than a mistake.

Draco keeps staring at him, looking a bit lost, and Harry takes pity on him. He walks to the side of the bed and drops a light kiss on Draco’s forehead. Draco pushes into Harry’s touch like a cat being stroked. “But if you’re free later,” Harry tells him, the words spilling from his mouth before he can stop them, “I’d like to take you out to dinner?”

“Yes,” Draco says immediately, and he lays back against the pillows, pulling the coverlet over his chest and smiling contentedly. “I’d like that.”

“Okay then,” Harry says, and cannot stop himself from adding with forced cheerfulness, “It’s a date!”. He wants to hit himself over the head. It seems like nothing will keep him from impulsively talking, so he just blurts out, “I’ll text you!”, and Apparates away.

 

****

 

“Hermione! Hermione, are you home?” Harry’s head is sticking out of Hermione’s Floo; his knees hurt and his back aches from the awkward position. Merlin, he could have just called her like a normal human being. Hermione owns a mobile after all.

“‘Arry! ‘Arry!” Little Rosie spots him from where she’s playing with her toy Quidditch team on the living room rug and she toddles toward him, batting her little hands right in his face.

“Rosie, hello. Ow, Rosie. That’s my eye, Rosie. _Ow_ , stop! Can you get your mum, please?”

“Harry? What’s going on?” Hermione’s socked feet appear in his field of vision and then she’s kneeling on the carpet in front of the hearth.

“Can I come in? I wasn’t sure if you were home.”

“Yes, of course. Ron’s at work, though. Did you want to see him?”

“I’m fine with just you,” Harry says, and a second later he steps out of Hermione’s fireplace, dusting ash out of his hair and clothes. “Although I’m sure you’ll tell Ron as soon as he comes back.”

Hermione brushes her hands over the red apron she’s wearing. “I was making biscuits. Do you want to come in the kitchen?”

Rosie goes back to her tiny Quidditch team floating a foot above the living room rug, and Harry follows Hermione into her warm, bright kitchen. When her and Ron had first purchased the cottage, Hermione had insisted that they remodel the kitchen in the yellow and earth tones that reminded her of the Provence house near Avignon where she and her parents had spent most of their summers until she went to Hogwarts. Sitting down at the heavy wooden table in the middle of the room, Harry sees the appeal of it: for a moment, it’s like he’s left England for the sunny south of France.

“So what brings you here this early on a Sunday?” Hermione asks kindly, setting the kettle to boil and going back to the bowl of biscuit dough on the table, stirring it with a wooden spoon. “How was Blaise’s stag night? You look like you’ve had two hours of sleep.”

“Er,” Harry feels himself blush. “I kind of had.”

Hermione puts the spoon down and looks at him. Her eyes suddenly widen with understanding and she gives him a mischievous grin. “Harry James Potter. Did you pick up someone last night?”

“Er, yes. But I’m not sure what to do about it,” Harry says, looking at his hands on the table.

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“It was Draco,” he admits with a sigh, and probably turns a deep shade of crimson while saying it.

“Draco,” Hermione echoes, putting her hand on her mouth as if fighting a smile. “Oh.”

Harry frowns at her. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Mmh." Hermione brushes her hands down her apron again and turns to pour hot water into two tea mugs. “Honestly, Harry, no, I’m not. I could see it coming.”

“You could? How? _I_ didn’t see it coming!”

“Only because you’re the most oblivious human being on earth,” Hermione tells him matter-of-factly. “I have eyes, Harry. I’ve seen how you’ve been practically drooling over Draco for months now. And you’ve been _obsessed_ with him —” she lifts a placatory hand when Harry opens his mouth to protest, “— you’ve been obsessed with him for years. It was the weird thing you had for him in Sixth Year, and now it’s this very intense friendship, and —”

“ _Intense_ friendship?” Harry almost chokes on the words.

“Well, yeah! Do you realise how much time you spend together? How much you talk about him — the things you do together, the exhibits he takes you to, the music he makes you listen to, and don’t even get me started on how much grief you gave me over his supposedly _annoying_ boyfriends...” Hermione shakes her head disbelievingly, her bushy curls bouncing to and fro.

She sets a tea mug on the table in front of Harry, and cradles the other one into her hands. “But that’s okay, Harry. I’m happy for you.” She stops short and suddenly eyes him suspiciously. “ _Wait_. Why did you say you weren’t sure what to do about sleeping with Draco?” She lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “Was it —  was it bad?”

“No, it was... quite amazing, actually.” Harry blushes so hard it's likely the blood will never leave his face for the rest of his life. He takes a sip of his tea, hoping to hide his embarrassment in the bergamot-scented steam. “But honestly, it was a mistake. We were sitting at the bar, and he said something — he sounded so hopeless about ever finding someone — and I just… I just kissed him. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. And one thing led to another…” He drops his hands in his lap. “We shouldn’t have, Hermione. I’m not looking to date. We’ve already talked about it, you know? Me and him dating, and we both agreed it would be a terrible idea. And we both like what we have. I don’t want to lose him as a friend.” He raises pleading eyes at her. “What do I do?”

Hermione stares at him for a while. It always unnerves Harry when Hermione doesn’t speak, because he’s so used to her having an answer to everything.

She ends up taking a seat next to him at the table and she looks him straight in the eye.

“Harry, you need to be certain about what you want. Because if you don’t want to date Draco, then you should tell him as soon as possible. Please, please, _please_ don’t dangle the idea of a relationship in front of him if you have no intention of following through. Because _that_ will put a end to your friendship more surely than sleeping with him in the first place.”

“What, I should just go ahead and tell him I’m not interested in him?” It sounds blunt and cruel and honestly not completely convincing, even to Harry.

“Maybe not so rudely,” Hermione says patiently, exactly as though she’s explaining something complicated to baby Rosie. “Why not hear what he has to say first? What if he feels the same way as you do?”

Strangely, Harry hasn’t considered that outcome. “Yeah, he might just want to leave it at that, too,” he says thoughtfully.

“Just talk to him,” Hermione pats him on the knee just as Rosie bursts into the kitchen, screaming, “Mummy, Mummy, bis’kit!”. Hermione lifts her daughter up in the air and swirls her around the kitchen, Rosie’s squeals of laughter echoing around them. Harry can’t help but smile. He wonders if he’ll ever have that — that domesticity, that easy everyday happiness.

He’s not even sure that's what he wants.

Whatever he has with Draco Malfoy — whether it’s an _intense friendship_ , as Hermione put it, or something else — it’s exhilarating, and infuriating, and never dull. He’s not convinced he would give it up to settle with someone else, someone nice and sorted and uneventful.

He gets up. “Thanks, ‘Mione.” He pauses on the way out of the kitchen. “Please don’t tell Ron about the sleeping with Draco part?”

Hermione gives him a flat look. “Harry, he’s my husband. You know I will.”

“It was worth a try. Ugh, I’m never going to hear the end of it, am I?”

“Just count on Ron being too uncomfortable with the topic to ever bring it up,” Hermione laughs. Then her expression turns more serious and she says, “I hope you’re sure about this.”

Harry knows he’s not, not entirely, so he just shrugs. Rosie looks at Harry with big brown eyes and waves, “Bye bye, ‘Arry!”

“Bye, Rosie. Bye, ‘Mione.” And he walks back to their fireplace to Floo back home.

 

****

 

Harry meets Draco at _North Sea_ , and he briefly ponders whether this choice of a location is truly a good idea — just a few streets off King’s Cross, the walk to the fish and chips place brings back memories of their first train ride to Hogwarts when they were little kids and their road trip back to London eight years ago.

If anyone had told him then that he would have ended up having a memorable night of passionate sex with Draco Malfoy, he would have, at the very least, sent them packing to the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo’s.

And yet this is exactly what happened, because when it comes to Draco Malfoy, life obviously likes to play tricks on Harry, and things never go the way he expects them to.

From outside the restaurant, Harry can see that Draco is already inside. His pale face is still slightly pink at the cheeks, his lips still a bit swollen from all the kissing they did just a few hours before, and the sight of him takes Harry’s breath away for a second.

He shakes himself, remembering the little speech he’s prepared, and he pushes the door and steps inside the restaurant.

 _North Sea_ was a very deliberate choice on his part. It’s fish and chips, so it’s decidedly not romantic or suggestive of a date whatsoever. Yet it’s a nicer fish and chips place, the gourmet kind with tables to sit at and have actual dinner, and he’s fairly certain Draco will like the food and beer on the menu.

Draco smiles when he sees him, a cautious upward tug on the lips. Harry sits down across the table from him. He’s fairly certain his expression mirrors Draco’s.

“Hi,” Draco says.

“Hey,” Harry replies, grabbing the menu from the table and absorbing himself in it. “How was your day?”

“Not productive in the least.”

“Oh?” Harry lifts his eyes and looks at Draco from above the menu.

“Yes, Harry. Turns out that having a wild night of sex with you is _not_ conducive to a productive day,” Draco’s smile turns just slightly wicked, and — _fuck_. Harry’s body responds with interest, while Harry himself blushes embarrassingly, looking left and right to see if the tables around them have overheard Draco.

Draco laughs. “I forgot how cute you are when you’re flustered.”

His eyes are fond, if slightly guarded, and Harry waits until their orders are placed before he starts.

“About that,” he stammers. “Last night was brilliant. Really brilliant. But — remember when we talked about you and me going out? That it wasn’t a good idea, that we were better off as friends?”

Draco holds himself very, very still as he listens to Harry’s stuttering reasoning. His expression is unreadable, and his eyes have lost the softness of a few moments ago, and it’s deeply disconcerting.

“I didn't think—" Draco starts saying when Harry’s finished. He pauses, jaw working a bit. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, sharp. “You’re right. It was a mistake. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t think us shagging meant we were in a relationship.”

“Oh.” Harry says. “Okay.” He fiddles with the napkin in front of him, nonplussed. He can’t meet Draco’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I guess I just freaked out a bit. I don’t know what I was thinking about, kissing you like that… and then going back home with you and… yeah.”

“Harry, it’s fine.” Harry finally gathers the courage to look up at Draco. His hand rests on the middle of the small table, very close to Harry’s. “We’re friends. We just shagged that one time. Our friends are getting married, we’re both single, emotions run high, I get it. Won’t happen again. Let’s talk about something else, all right?”

“Okay,” Harry nods. He’s relieved, and yet a leaden feeling, heavy like disappointment, settles in his chest at the idea of never having Draco like that again.

He has to admit he quite liked Draco naked and uninhibited, moving in time underneath him.

Or above him.

Which is quite the opposite of what Draco looks like now, dressed impeccably, hair combed within an inch of its life and that affable, if slightly pinched, expression on his face.

The waiter brings their drinks and Draco takes a sip of his beer, making an approving little sound. He seems untroubled by Harry’s request to remain friends, and Harry wishes it was as easy for him as it appears to be for Draco.

He looks around the restaurant, taking in the smiling faces of couples and groups of friends around them, throwing Draco surreptitious glances from time to time.

“It’s so nice, being able to share a meal without having to talk,” Draco finally comments. His accent has turned sharper, posher in the last few minutes. Harry knows him well enough to tell it’s a sign of Draco working to maintain a certain composure. The thought makes him feel marginally happier. “I hate when people expect to fill the silence with meaningless chatter.”

“Mmh,” Harry says noncommittally.

“It’s brilliant, really. Not awkward at all.”

“Yeah,” Harry responds again, feeling decidedly awkward on the contrary. The silence between them grows thicker as the seconds go by. Harry is starting to regret his decision to bring up last night with Draco. He should have just let it follow its own course. After all, they seemed to be on the same page from the beginning — perhaps there was no need to make things uncomfortable by discussing it at length.

Harry is lost in those anxious thoughts when the waiter arrives with their orders. Both he and Draco brighten considerably at the sight of the baskets filled with breaded fish and golden chips. Thank Merlin for food as conversation fodder. They both tuck in as though they haven’t eaten in days, and after a few bites they start exchanging impressions about their respective orders, whether the beer complements the food, and if those chips are better than the ones they buy from their usual shop in Islington.

Naturally the conversation takes them to Blaise and Ginny’s wedding, whether Blaise will agree to hire a caterer or whether he’ll work himself to the bone trying to prepare all the food in addition to the rest of the wedding, and which one of Blaise or Ginny will crack first and hex the other out of sheer annoyance with wedding preparations.

It takes them a few minutes to pick up the usual pace of their banter, but by the end of the evening, Harry feels better, and it’s almost as if nothing’s changed between them.

Almost.

Because when they walk out of the restaurant and Draco says goodbye to him before Disapparating with a crack in an alley nearby, Harry’s lips tingle with the absence of the kiss he realises he still expected, in spite of everything he said.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**_Tied up enough so I don’t have to wonder where is he  
_ Amy Winehouse** **_, Wake Up Alone_ **

 

**October 27th, 2017**

 

The weeks leading to Blaise and Ginny’s wedding are frantic.

Between long and exhausting shifts at work, and every minute outside of St Mungo’s filled with robe fittings, champagne tastings and reviewing caterers until Ginny predictably cracks and screams at Blaise to just do the catering of his own wedding, _if no one else is good enough for you, for fuck’s sake_ , Harry has no time to spend with Draco. That is, outside of occasionally running into him while on best man duty. Their encounters are polite if slightly awkward, and Draco’s always running to the next task, saying he needs to check something with the florist or Floo-call the venue or go back to work, and Harry doesn’t know what to make of it. He misses their easy friendship, their playful banter, their long conversations over foil containers of curry and nan, their walks around London. They’re so busy right now that it’s easy to discount this new distance, blame it on their schedules being too crammed to fit non-work or -wedding related activities.

And yet he can’t shake the feeling that Draco is avoiding him on purpose.

When he gathers up the courage to ask Pansy Parkinson about it one day, when they’re both out on florist duty, she just lifts her eyebrow and tells him she has no idea what he’s talking about, like the good little Slytherin she is.

On the day of the wedding, Harry and Draco’s jobs consist in sheltering the groom and bride from all the stress and anxiety surrounding them. If Harry’s honest, he’s never seen Ginny _less_ stressed, no matter how much Molly Weasley, seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, fusses with her wedding dress and her braided hair. Harry is standing close by in his best man attire. His dress robes artfully fall open over black dress trousers, white shirt and teal silk tie. Just before she left for the church, Hermione spelled Harry’s hair neat — or as neat as it can get with or without magical help — so he thinks he’s presentable. The other ushers will be wearing matching outfits as well, but all Harry can think about is how Draco will look in his. Hot as all hell, no doubt. For the thousandth time since Blaise’s stag night, Harry feels that same stab of uncertainty and regret. He still cannot decide if he regrets sleeping with Draco in the first place, or if he regrets not following through on the pretext that they would be terrible at dating each other. He’s no longer convinced that the sex was a bad idea, because how can something that unforgettable be a bad idea? It’s not as if Harry can get the memories of that night out of his head. For the last few weeks, all he's seen every time he closes his eyes and wanks in the shower are white-blond hair, grey eyes heavy-lidded with lust and pleasure, smooth, pale skin rippling over taut muscles and Draco’s voice encouraging him, telling him that _he’s amazing, he’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, fuck I’ve wanted you for so long, Harry._ And a relationship with Draco — well, Harry definitely sucks at relationships in general, but his friendship with Draco is so good, so easy, so healing — would being his boyfriend feel any different?

“Harry!” Ginny snaps her fingers in front of him, and he snaps back to reality with a start.

“Sorry Gin,” he shakes himself and holds himself straighter to show her he’s one hundred percent invested in his role as best man. When he looks around, he sees they're alone. “Where did your mum go?”

“Fleur came to get her. Better to make sure she gets to church now, before she starts crying and ruining her make-up. And dripping mascara all over my white dress.”

Harry chuckles, and Ginny tilts her head, suddenly serious. “Are you okay, though?” she asks. “You were really lost in your thoughts if you didn’t notice any of this.”

Harry swallows. “I’m fine, Gin. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Draco is going to be here, too, and I was hoping it wouldn’t be awkward.”

“Why would it be?” Harry stops, realising how unnecessary the question is. He lifts his glasses to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wait. Does everybody know?”

“Yeah,” Ginny rolls her eyes, and of course all his friends would have heard about his one-time shag with Draco. He may have only told Hermione, but he never made Draco promise he’d keep it a secret. And in any case, he’s fairly certain Blaise and Pansy combined are better at interrogation than the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement. So the Kneazle is out of the bag, and everybody knows.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

“Gin, I don’t want to talk about it. Today is about you and Blaise, okay? Draco and I are adults and we agreed to stay friends, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Ginny studies him with a light crease between her brows. “If you say so,” she says eventually. “I wasn’t surprised you two shagged, really. I was more surprised when nothing came out of it.”

“Ginny, I just said I didn’t want to talk about it,” Harry grinds out. When her expression softens, he lets go of his frustration and smiles at her. “Let’s go get you married before Blaise changes his mind, shall we?”

“Blaise knows a good thing when he has it,” Ginny elbows him gently in the side. “Unlike some other people,” she adds slyly.

“If you’re referring to you and me, I prefer the version of the story where I figured out your soulmate was still out there and I set you free to find him.”

“That’s so poetic of you, Harry.” He takes her elbow and gets ready to Apparate them to the church where the rest of the wedding guest await them. “But I wasn’t talking about you and me,” she mutters with a dismayed shake of her head, and Harry doesn’t have time to ask her to expand on that. With a crack, Ginny spins them both into darkness.

 

****

 

The wedding is beautiful, not that Harry expected anything less of a fierce Gryffindor and a tasteful Slytherin. When Harry and Ginny Apparate in the church’s main entry, Arthur Weasley comes to meet them. He kisses Ginny on the cheek and whispers to Harry, “Molly’s sitting on the front bench. She’s been crying for half an hour already,” and Harry schools his features into a sympathetic pout.

Harry’s eyes scan his surroundings and he immediately spots Draco on the other side of the room. Neither his presence nor his devastating allure are a surprise, but Harry’s heart skips a beat at the sight of him nonetheless. He’s wearing the same outfit as Harry, as are the rest of the men in the wedding party — Ron, George, Neville on Ginny’s side and Theo Nott on Blaise’s. On him it looks regal, whereas on Harry it just looks as though he very visibly and painfully made an effort to dress up. Draco catches Harry staring at him and nods, a simple acknowledgment of his presence. Harry’s certain that just a few weeks ago, Draco would have walked up to him, shared a few funny stories about getting the groom ready for the big day. He hates the distance between them, especially today, and he wants to shake Draco, make him swear that everything is actually all right and any awkwardness is purely a product of Harry’s imagination. But he is Ginny's best man and as such, when the music starts and the wedding party moves to walk down the aisle, he ignores his unease and follows the others.

Blaise is already waiting at the altar, looking even more handsome than usual in grey fitted dress robes that highlight his tall, broad-shouldered frame, his hair in neat cornrows, his face glowing with happiness and pride. Theo Nott stands behind him and Ron and George across from them, on the bride’s side. Neville and Melusine, Pansy’s girlfriend, are the first to join them, walking slowly down the rows of guests. Draco and Luna are next, and Draco spares Harry a glance just before Luna pulls him toward the aisle. Harry wants to reach out and grab him and — he doesn’t know what he would do next, and anyway Ginny would Avada Kedavra him on the spot if he ruined the entrance of the bride. So he watches them go, and then Pansy takes his arm and leads him after Draco and Luna.

“You’re lucky he likes you, Potter,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Harry to hear. “Otherwise I would have hexed your arse all the way to France on his behalf a month ago.”

“Is he cross with me?” Harry urgently whispers back, rather dumbly, he thinks. Both him and Pansy have big fake smiles plastered on their faces. Just a few more steps and they will have reached the altar. Harry won’t get another chance to talk about this with Pansy; the steely glint of her black eyes assures him of that.

“I thought you were clever, Potter,” she answers, contempt tinting her words.

“Why would he be?” Harry asks helplessly again. “We agreed it wasn't a good idea.”

She glances at him disdainfully, the polite smile on her lips never reaching her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that,” she tells him and lets go of his arm. At the altar, everyone in the wedding party has taken their place: Draco standing just behind Blaise, Theo, Pansy and Melusine close next to him. On the bride’s side, Luna and Neville have joined Ron and George, and Harry takes his spot next to them.

The music changes again as _Here Comes The Bride_ resounds in the sanctuary and all heads turn toward the entrance. Ginny appears on her father’s arm, her creamy white gown a perfect match for her freckled milky skin and fiery red braids. From the corner of his eye, Harry catches Molly Weasley as her crying intensifies and Hermione pats her arm sympathetically, her own eyes wet. Harry watches Ginny walk towards them. She’s radiant, her smile brighter than he’s ever seen it, and with a pang of emotion he remembers how the last years of their relationship looked like, how they never seemed to understand each other no matter how much they talked. He never made her look like that, as though she’s just scored five hundred points at a Quidditch game, as though she’s just won the bloody World Cup. His chest swells with the joyful melancholy that hits him. In some sort of reverse schadenfreude, he’s so glad he’s alone if it means Ginny can be this happy. _My contribution as best man_ , he thinks and smiles to himself. And just then he catches sight of Draco furtively looking at him, and his smile withers. He looks away, swallowing, his throat suddenly tight.

Arthur kisses his daughter on the cheek, and Ginny walks the three steps up to the altar, smiling at Harry when she takes her place across from Blaise. Blaise has an awed look on his face, a small shaky smile and shiny eyes and for a second, Harry thinks he’s going to cry. But Draco gently touches his friend on the arm then, and Blaise seems to snap out of the overwhelming emotion that seized him. He reaches out and takes Ginny’s hands in his, and the wedding official clears her throat.

The traditional wedding words are pronounced and Harry wants to look anywhere but at Draco. Unfortunately, as always and seemingly against his better judgment, his eyes are pulled back to him.

He stands very straight and still, more dignified than Harry could ever hope to look, the light of the floating candles turning his pale hair golden, his eyes warm and fond on the couple in front of him. Still, there’s something wistful in his cautious smile, in the restrained emotion on his face, and it echoes with the unnamed longing Harry feels, right here in the middle of a ceremony that celebrates their two friends having found true love. Draco’s eyes move to Harry’s face then. His jaw works a bit, but he doesn’t look away. Harry swallows, summoning his courage, and holds Draco’s stare. Blaise and Ginny exchange their vows, and the words somehow manage to reach Harry’s ears through the loud beating of his heart. The official swishes her wand, golden cords of magic wrapping around Blaise and Ginny’s linked hands, the traditional matrimonial bond settling in their skins, their veins, magically making them two parts of the same whole.

“You may kiss the bride,” the official announces genially, and Blaise and Ginny throw themselves in each other’s arms and into a deep kiss while the wedding assembly explodes with applause and cheers and Harry snaps out of his daze. That’s it, the ceremony is over, and Harry’s unsure what to do next.

What to do between now and the wedding reception, that is.

Although he’s less and less certain about what to do with Draco, either.

 

****

 

Later that evening, when dinner is over and dancing couple have started to glide across the dancefloor alongside the groom and bride, Harry finds himself knocking back yet another glass of champagne while a young brown-haired witch tries to get him to participate in a flirty and, frankly, so far one-sided conversation with her.

She's very pretty, and Harry dully muses that there was a time when he and her would have already departed to his flat for a quick and dirty shag. But tonight, he couldn’t be less interested.

First of all, he hasn’t slept with anyone magic since — his mind stops before he can think ‘Draco’, and quickly moves to the previous magic person he’s had in his bed, and that is Ginny, and it's not much better.

The witch — Iphigenia or something, a pinch Chaser in some Quidditch team or another, Harry honestly didn’t listen when she said — is almost aggressively batting her lashes at him. He sees her eyes darting to the scar on his forehead, and he remembers with a sinking feeling that outside of his close group of witches and wizards friends, he’s still The Boy Who Lived in the minds of the wizarding world. That’s why he’s preferred Muggle lovers in recent years: the idea that someone would sleep with him just because he’s Harry Potter makes him deeply uncomfortable, as though he’s taking advantage. Although it’s very clear that the young woman currently trying to seduce him would leave the party with him in a heartbeat, and on her own free will, should Harry indicate the slightest bit of interest. But even then, there’s no knowing if she wouldn't just shag him and run to the press the next morning — he’s been fairly content in recent years to leave the juicier bits of his personal life out of the wizarding press, who’s now speculating on Harry being some sort of celibate hero Healer for lack of a better news story to report.

As far as he knows, no one outside of his family and friends knows he’s queer and that he’s dated numerous Muggle men and women over the past few years. Nor that his last epic shag was Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, Muggle Politics Mediation Director, and Harry's best friend.

He looks up as the thought of Draco hits him again, and he catches Draco’s eyes from across the buffet table. Draco politely gestures at the waiter and leaves his empty champagne on the tray before he pointedly turns away from Harry to stare out the bay windows overlooking Diagon Alley.

“Excuse me for a second,” Harry absently pats Iphigenia’s arm — or was it Cassandra? He can’t remember for the life of him — and he walks as nonchalantly as his eagerness to be near Draco will allow. He stops next to him, both of them facing the window, strings of fairy lights illuminating the cobbled street below them. Draco’s back tenses, but there is no other sign that he’s acknowledged Harry’s presence.

“Beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it?” Harry asks with forced brightness.

“Very,” Draco just says, not turning to look at Harry. After the intensity of their eye contact during Blaise and Ginny’s wedding vows, the sudden lack of it leaves Harry agitated.

“Look, Draco,” he starts before he can think too long about it, “are you cross with me or something? You’ve been distant ever since we… you know,” he finishes lamely.

Draco finally turns to look at Harry. His face is shuttered, his eyes cold and piercing. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry’s puzzled. “Why not? If there’s something wrong, I’d rather know now so we can get it over with.”

Now Draco’s fully facing him, his face very close to his. Harry can feel the warmth of his skin and the ripples of angry magic underneath it. “I said, I don’t. Want. To talk. About it.”

And turning on his heel, he storms off toward the exit.

Harry remains rooted to the spot for a second before he rushes forward, out of the reception space and after Draco. He finds him standing in front of the lifts, fidgeting and impatiently tapping his foot, as fretful as Harry’s ever seen him. He looks up when he hears Harry’s approaching footsteps and his grey eyes flash murderously.

“Draco, come on,” Harry says, all the while cursing his Gryffindor bloodymindedness. Draco looks like he’s about to hex his bollocks off and frankly, Harry doesn’t know what possesses him to follow Draco when he made it quite plain he didn’t want to talk to Harry. “Why won’t you talk about it? I thought we were fine. It was three weeks ago, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Yes, Harry, it was three weeks ago,” Draco snarls. “What’s your point?”

“You know how they say one year to humans is seven years to a Crup?” Harry wishes he could make him see. Things are going to be all right. They have to be.

Draco stares at him, gaping. “Is one of us supposed to be a Crup in this scenario?”

“Yes,” Harry nods.

“Who’s the Crup, Harry?” Draco grinds through gritted teeth.

“You are.”

The lift doors ding open and Draco lets out a frustrated growl and turns around, walking in the lift cabin and pushing the door-close button manically in the hopes of evading Harry. Which doesn’t work very well, since Harry rushes inside the lift just before the doors close. It’s only when he realises they’re alone in a confined space that Harry admits it might not have been his brightest idea. In the small cabin, Draco feels much closer to him, physically at least, and the angry energy building between them could so easily turn into sexual tension…

“It is incredibly rude to force your presence on someone who explicitly told you to _sod off_ ,” Draco interrupts that train of thought as efficiently as his quick breathing and flushed cheeks will allow. Harry wants to grab his face and kiss him, push him up against the wall and press his hips against his until they’re both breathless and gasping, and he shakes from the effort of staying on his side of the lift.

“Draco, I don’t understand,” he pleads. “I thought we both agreed that sleeping together was a mistake!”

The lift door opens again and Draco strides out into the hotel lobby with only a withering glare thrown at Harry. But Harry catches him by the elbow, stopping him in his tracks. Draco seems to abandon all hope of escaping Harry’s stubborn focus, and he rounds on him, utterly shaking with rage.

“Of _course_ sleeping with me was a mistake. I forgot who I am talking to. Of course the Chosen One shagging the ex-Death Eater could never be anything other than a mistake.” His eyes are incandescent with rage, and Harry drops his hand, taking a step back as Draco advances on him, his voice quavering. “How convenient for you.”

“It’s not like that!” Harry tells him. “It’s just that — we were at the bar, and you sounded so... _dejected_ , and honestly I didn’t plan for anything to happen, I just wanted to make you feel better —”

“You wanted _what?!_ ” Draco’s glare could Avada Kedavra him on the spot, he’s certain. He’s never seen Draco more desperately angry, not since they fought about the Ministry job offer, not since that awful fight in an abandoned bathroom at Hogwarts which had ended up with Draco almost dead. “What are you saying, Harry? You took _pity_ on me?”

Harry goes to correct him but Draco’s quicker. With a slash of his wand, he aims a vicious Stinging Hex that lands on Harry’s cheek like a slap in the face.

“Fuck you, _Potter_ ,” Draco spits, eyes shiny, bottom lip quivering, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

He turns around, and then he’s gone, leaving Harry clutching his face breathlessly.

Certain he’s irremediably fucked things up, and unsure how it happened.

 

****

 

**November 2007**

  
It’s not the first time Harry and Draco have a row, but when Draco doesn’t contact Harry for three weeks, it finally dawns on Harry that it’s a worse fight than he'd even imagined, and he’s at a loss to figure out how to patch things up.

After Draco left Blaise and Ginny’s wedding, Harry stayed in the lobby, utterly stunned, until a receptionist came over to check if he was all right or if he needed anything. He went back up to the wedding reception just to say goodbye to Blaise and Ginny who’d be leaving the next day for their honeymoon in Peru — Blaise had insisted it was the new food destination of South America and Ginny had agreed, although she was mostly looking forward to the treks in the Amazon rainforest. Fortunately, neither of them had witnessed Harry and Draco’s argument, and Harry deflected their questions about Draco’s whereabouts. “Have a brilliant time in Peru,” he said to Ginny, kissing her cheek. “Be nice,” she answered, patting Harry’s cheek where Draco had hexed him only a few minutes ago. He winced, certain that he had royally screwed things up on the ‘being nice’ part already.

He’s not even sure he wants to patch things up with Draco, he sometimes thinks angrily whenever thoughts of Draco pop up in his head. Which they do frequently while he’s at work, or taking a walk home, or drinking at the pub with Dean and Seamus, or alone in bed at night, looking for sleep. And he’s entitled to be angry, isn’t he? It’s Draco who cut Harry from his life so easily, stopping all communication on the basis of a misunderstanding. Sure, Harry could have handled the small matter of how them sleeping together shouldn’t affect their friendship with a bit more diplomacy, but surely Draco knew diplomacy wasn’t Harry’s forte by now. Hell, if Hermione wasn’t around to help him with delicate situations and fragile susceptibilities, Harry’s not sure he would have survived the war. But Hermione had told him to be straightforward with Draco, and Harry had been exactly that. He was pants at dating, and he didn’t want to sacrifice his friendship with Draco on the wager that he could make a romantic relationship work. But now it seems that he sacrificed his friendship with Draco anyway.

“Sleeping with people is a bad idea,” he groans while waiting in line at Caffe Nero with Ron one Tuesday morning before they each go to work, Ron with the Aurors, Harry with the Healers. “I’m not sleeping with anyone, ever again.”

Ron grunts noncommittally. He looks distinctly uncomfortable, as he always does these days whenever Harry so much as hints at his one-night thing with Draco. He’s eyeing the specials board as if his life depends on it, even though Harry knows he’s going to order the Milano hot chocolate as always, because that’s the reason why they come to this Muggle coffee shop and not the wizarding ones on Diagon Alley (“Wizards just never get the whipped cream right, dunno why,” Ron always complains).

Harry insists, more to himself than in the hopes that Ron will provide actual useful advice. “I haven’t heard from him since Ginny’s wedding. Do you think he’s alright? I mean, other than being cross with me. Do you think something happened to him? Is he ill? Why wouldn’t he call?”

“Mate, you’ve got to stop,” Ron turns sharply on him once he’s done pretending to be absorbed in the pastry display and he can no longer ignore Harry. “This feels like Sixth Year all over again. ‘Why do you think Malfoy is acting like he is? Where is he going? What do you think he’s up to?’ Seriously, remember how it ended the last time?” He looks at Harry sternly. “You’re my best mate, Harry, and I want you to be happy. And if Malfoy makes you happy — I can live with that. He’s not a bad bloke these days. Hermione speaks really highly of him, and that's no mean feat. But I can’t help you if you’re going to go back to obsessing over him.”

“I’m not _obsessing_ over him!” Harry says, offended, even though he has to admit that Ron, in one of his uncannily perceptive moments, is not far from the truth. “I’m just… worried, I guess.”

Ron snorts. “Right. If you’re so worried, just call him. Or just wait for him to call you. Easy.”

Harry’s about to retort something — although Ron has a point, the point being Harry could very well just call Draco, and he hasn’t done it yet out of… of cowardice, of fear of being shut out again, of hearing things he doesn’t want to hear — but the barista turns her attention to them, and when they’re done placing their orders, Ron has taken the opportunity to shift the conversation to another topic.

 

The weather grows steadily chillier, and the leaves in the trees turn for good. On his days off, Harry takes long, wistful walks in streets covered in red and gold dead leaves, feeds the ducks in St James’s park, and sometimes walks in art galleries to check that he still doesn’t understand a thing about contemporary art. Draco doesn’t call for another week, and Harry finally cracks and sends him a text. It’s something nice, simple and just the right amount of aloof — because Harry is still proud and won’t let Draco know how much he misses him. _Hey_ , it says, h _ow are you? Do you want to hang out? Maybe see that Lee Miller exhibit at the V &A? Art still very confusing without your running commentary. H. _

Draco doesn’t answer, and Harry goes to the V&A with Hermione. For her sake, he tries not to show how disappointed he is that he’s not there with Draco, but he thinks she knows anyway.

So Harry takes on calling Draco instead. The first time he hears the rings of the line waiting to connect, his heart skips a few bits and he feels faint, which is entirely ridiculous. He’s just calling his friend to check in on him. Draco doesn’t answer, and Harry calls again at a different time, and then again at another, hoping that by changing his pattern the element of surprise might get Draco to pick up the phone.

He starts leaving messages.

At first, they are simple variations of the last text he sent him. _Hi Draco, haven’t heard from you in a long time, just give me a call back, okay, bye._ Harry’s the embodiment of Gryffindor pride, after all. But when Draco never calls back, Harry’s messages grow increasingly less offhand, and soon all his Gryffindor pride flies out of the window and Harry’s leaving messages every other day.

They’re about nothing in particular, and after a while he realises he’s just telling Draco about his day — his little patients, the obnoxious nurse who chews and pops her gum loudly, the older Healer who took up mentoring him after he broke down one day when they brought in a little girl with multiple fractures all over her body from falling from a broom. When he’s not leaving messages to Draco’s answering machine, he throws himself headfirst into work, working overtime, taking additional shifts from his colleagues just to avoid going home and moping alone. He recognises he's coming off as a tad obsessive, and he knows he’s making a tit of himself, but now that he’s started, there’s nothing left to lose.

On a typical Wednesday evening, he calls Draco’s number to leave him the usual message. By now, he doesn’t expect him to pick up. He just likes the illusion of Draco’s company that it creates. He settles on his couch, putting his feet up on the armrest, and lets out a long exhale when Draco’s voicemail message plays in Draco’s stupid, posh accent. Fuck, he misses that stupid, posh bastard and his stupid face and his stupid, _stupid_ , funny, one-of-a-kind personality. Harry rubs a hand on his face with a frustrated groan, and then starts talking.

He’s in the middle of a rather lively recounting of a normal day at the Children’s Ward of St Mungo’s — today involved an inordinate amount of projectile vomiting, even by Harry’s standards — when Draco picks up. Harry’s so used to him never answering that he doesn’t realise Draco’s on the line until he speaks.

“What do you want, Harry?”

His tone is flat and a little defeated, as if he tried very hard not to answer Harry’s call and failed. Harry scrambles to a sitting position, all his senses suddenly on high alert.

“Draco? Hi. Thank you for picking up. I’m so glad you picked up,” Harry rushes to say, a little hysterically.

“You’ve called me twenty times already. I thought you’d give up after a while, but I obviously forgot what a stubborn Gryffindor twat you are.”

Harry will take a mild insult over Draco not talking to him, any day. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“I was on my way out. Is this going to take long?” Draco’s tone is cold, restrained. “What do you want?”

Harry stands up now and starts walking around his living room, one hand clutching his mobile to his ear and the other nervously raking through his hair.

“Pansy invited me to her New Year’s party again. Well, _she_ didn’t invite me, but Ginny did. She’s going with Blaise. Obviously.”

Draco remains silent and Harry continues, going for a gentle joke. “Last year, we said that if both of us were single by the end of the year we would go to Pansy's party as each other’s date, so…” He grimaces, crossing his fingers in his hair. “Wanna go with me?”

There’s a soft huff in his ear, and not for the first time he wishes that he hadn’t screwed up so badly, that he could see Draco instead of just guessing his reaction from the breaths he hears on the phone.

“Draco?” he probes again.

“Sorry, Harry. I’m not your consolation prize,” Draco says, sharp and cold like a knife in the ribs, and the line goes off.

 

****

 

**December 2007**

 

Ever since his first year at Hogwarts, Harry has always loved the days leading up to Christmas and New Year’s.

At first, it was a lovely change from the previous Christmases at the Dursleys, the dull hurt and shame of being left out of festivities that looked even more decadent when one was actively excluded from them. And then after that, December had always been associated with the heady hustle of Christmas preparations and the prospect of happy times. Finishing revisions and homework before the holidays, pending these few special days with his surrogate family and friends at Hogwarts, in that bubble of time free of mundane obligations. That dreary December on the run with Hermione was the one exception, one on which neither Harry nor Hermione liked to dwell for long. Adult life didn't alter Harry’s sense of anticipation: another side effect of working with kids, perhaps. His patients coming in wearing jumpers with knitted reindeers and laughing Father Christmas faces, and asking him to sing carols with them every time he checks in on them.

Having godchildren also intensifies the end-of-year holiday spirit. Teddy’s Christmas shopping list is endless and Harry finds himself fighting the crowds on Diagon Alley to buy him a new set of wizarding chess and the Harpies Quidditch shirt he’s been nagging his grandmother about. And in the process, he also buys several books and toys for little Rosie.

He would have even shopped for Draco, had he had any hopes of seeing him at Christmas.

This year, the lovely Christmas atmosphere does nothing to fill the void left in Harry’s life where Draco used to be. Draco's cold words still echo in Harry's mind, as breathtakingly painful as when he first heard them. It’s as though all he can think about is Draco, who's made it clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with Harry anymore. He hates that he only now notices the full extent of Draco’s importance in his life, when he’s pretty sure he’s been important for a while.

It’s just that Harry never noticed, because it had never been painful to think about Draco before.

Funny how the absence of only one person can leave you feeling so desperately lonely, Harry thinks mournfully. He has the same amount of friends as he had before Draco came into his life — more friends than before, even. So why does it feel like the one person he wants to talk to has gone? Why does it hurt so much when he sees something funny, or pretty, or interesting, and his first thought is to call Draco and tell him about it?

Hermione’s concerned face does nothing to conceal the fact that he doesn’t hide his internal turmoil very well.

“Harry,” she tells him when they meet for their last monthly lunch of the year, “I’m so sorry. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry nods. Hermione doesn’t look convinced. She’s always the one trying to get Harry to be more open about his feelings. But right now Harry feels as if opening that door will release a flood of shit that he’s not ready to examine, much less embrace.

“It’s normal to miss him,” Hermione continues as if Harry had not said a thing. She fishes out a wonton with her chopsticks and chews on it thoughtfully, her perceptive brown eyes never leaving his face. “You’re allowed to be sad. It’s nearly Christmas, and you’ve just had a fight with someone who’s important to you.”

Harry huffs, pushing his fried rice around his plate. “That’s bollocks. He wasn’t that good of a friend anyway. Good riddance, I say.”

Hermione looks pained. “Harry, I know how you feel.”

He lifts his head, surprised. “You do?”

“Yeah. Remember — remember that horrible Christmas… the one when Ron had left. When we were hunting for... those things.” Her voice drops. Even after all those years, she chokes on the words. Harry’s throat feels tight. He just nods for her to continue, not trusting his voice to come out steady. “We had that fight, and I imagine that neither of us was entirely wrong, everything was just so awful, of course something had to give, but…” She takes a steadying breath, tucks a curly lock behind her ear. “I think it hurt me all the more because that’s when I realised I was in love with him, you know? I had been in love with him for years, probably, but him being gone… going to sleep every night not knowing how to make him come back, how to make things better… it was the worst part of that year for me.” She exhales a short laugh. “You must think I’m silly. We hunted Horcruxes. We — we fought Voldemort, for Circe’s sake. And yet having the man I loved gone from my life was the most terrified I’d ever felt.”

She finally looks up at Harry, who’s watching her with eyes wide as saucers, and stops short. “Harry, are you alright?”

“I’m not in love with him,” is all Harry manages to say.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione cover his hand with hers, and he’s reminded of the young girl he first met at Hogwarts, the one who was always so determined to save Harry and Ron from their often self-imposed ignorance. “I think you are. I think you’ve been in love with Draco for years.”

Harry swallows, but his throat is dry, and it does nothing to alleviate the icy feeling of dread that grips his heart.

Because Hermione’s right, isn’t she? She always is. And Harry’s decidedly the least self-aware person in existence. The past few months flash in his mind as his hands grip the paper napkin on his lap. Draco tilting his head back when he laughs, making Harry’s heart soar in his chest; Draco calling him just to tell him about his day, and listening to Harry tell him about his; Harry fucking him deep and slow against the tangled sheets, Draco’s hands in his hair, Draco’s eyes boring into his; Harry freaking out about it the next day, just because he’s scared and he never stops to examine his feelings.

He’d always thought true love was the kind of huge, unmistakable feeling that burst into one’s life. A feeling one couldn’t miss. He’d never thought it would ever feel like slowly building this sure, steady foundation over the years, until it felt like it’d been there all along, waiting for him to recognise it for what it is. He’s never been in love like this before, and it took Hermione to tell the story from her point of view for him to realise it.

“Does Draco know?” Harry finally whispers when his brain catches up with his pounding heart.

Hermione just watches him, and he wonders what she sees in his eyes.

“It’s not too late,” she just says.

 

****

 

If Harry felt sad and numb before his recent realisation, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now that he knows.

_He’s in love with Draco Malfoy._

Draco Malfoy who refuses to talk to him or see him. Who might or might not love him back. And he has no idea how to make things better, when all he’s done so far was make things worse — terribly, irremediably worse.

When he’s not at work, he mopes around the flat, turning the problem over and over in his head. He plays Muggle music on his stereo as if the sound, like some sort of modern Pied Piper, could bring Draco back. Amy Winehouse comes on the radio, singing about waking up alone, and Harry turns the volume up as loud as it goes, remembering the first concert Draco took him to, and how he’d said that the skinny, dark-haired girl with the deep seductive voice would have Sorted Slytherin, if she were a witch.

Christmas comes and goes in a blur. Harry doesn’t contact Draco, not having decided on a course of action. And perhaps, cowardly, because he’s hoping until the last moment that Draco will contact him first. He spends Christmas Eve at the Burrow and does a pretty good job at hiding the state he’s in — even though Hermione hugs him for a moment too long when he’s about to Floo home, and he tries not to feel like a complete fuck-up. He visits Andromeda and Teddy on Christmas Day, remembering at the last moment that Andromeda is Draco’s aunt and he could very well be invited too. The Black sisters reestablished contacts some years after the war, he knows, even though Andromeda sees Harry way more often than she sees Draco and his mum.

But Draco’s not there, and Harry’s gut does that weird flip, unsure whether he should be relieved or disappointed. Andromeda welcomes him warmly, Teddy greets him with the feigned indifference of young teenagers, and Harry manages to forget about Draco for a couple of hours.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**_Lead me out on the moonlit floor  
_ Sixpence None The Richer,** **_Kiss Me_ **

 

**New Year’s Eve, 2007**

 

“Are you sure you’re not coming, Harry?” Ginny insists one last time.

Harry shakes his head, laughing. Ginny is nothing if not persistent, a Gryffindor woman through and through. Funny how ten years ago, Harry thought being a Gryffindor — and a woman — were the top requirements for him to fall in love with someone. _The things letting Slytherins into your life will do to you_ , he thinks, amused in spite of himself.

“Alright, we’re going to be late,” Hermione stands from the couch, followed by Ron. They’ve both dressed up for the occasion, Hermione in a sequined dark blue dress, Ron in dark grey dress robes.

“Pansy will have our heads if we’re not there in the next minute.” Blaise gives Ginny’s hand a pull and lifts her up from where she’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged on Harry’s rug. She laughs, bright and blissful, when Blaise playfully squeezes her into a hug. They both look sickeningly happy, relaxed and tanned from their honeymoon in the sun. Harry’s suddenly glad he’s staying home tonight, free to mope around in his old jeans and his faded Oasis t-shirt, Bowie cuddled up against him on the sofa. Honestly, he’d just ruin the mood for everyone else at Pansy’s party.

“Bye mate,” Ron squeezes his shoulder on his way to the Floo. “See you next year!”

“Happy New Year, Harry,” Hermione smiles at him a little sadly, but fortunately refrains from any additional commentary. Harry’s pretty sure she hasn’t shared their last conversation with anyone else — Ron included — and he’s grateful for it. Not that he’s naive enough to think his friends are not discussing him and Draco behind his back, but at least they still think they’re two friends who had a fight and will eventually sort things out. They know nothing about the earth-shattering revelation Harry had a week ago.

Ron and Hermione grab a pinch of Floo powder and announce, “The Blue Orchid!” and they’re gone in a flash of green light. Ginny hugs Harry on her way out, and Blaise pats his back. “I’ll say hello to Draco for you, alright, old man?” he tells Harry, his voice low and close to Harry’s ear.

“Thanks, Blaise.” Harry swallows, oddly moved. “Have a great time at Pansy’s party, the both of you.”

Ginny waves at him as she steps into the green flames, Blaise’s hand on the small of her back, and just like that, Harry’s home alone again.

 

****

 

The New Year’s Eve programme on BBC One is showing a blond woman interviewing people in the street and listening to their supposedly cute 2007 stories with an enthusiastic smile on her face. This is nice, Harry thinks, lounging on his sofa with his feet up on the coffee table and a beer bottle in his hand. Bowie pushes his silver head into Harry's hand, and Harry scratches absent-mindedly between his ears. No need to do anything special today, is there? New Year’s Eve is a social construct. A day made special by companies trying to sell us stuff. Like Valentine’s Day. _No. Nope._ Thinking about Valentine’s Day was a _bad idea_. Harry’s definitely not looking forward to it. He’ll probably still be single, still wondering if he’s let the love of his life walk away out of sheer stupidity.

Merlin, he misses Draco so much. His entire chest hurts from missing him. Who knew heartbreak could be so incapacitating? It’s like breathing air with all the oxygen gone. Like trying to swim in the Hogwarts lake without the Gillyweed. Like the second before someone else catches the Snitch, when the Snitch was under your nose all along.

There is a shot of the illuminated London Eye on the telly and Harry is reminded of his long walks with Draco along the Thames, London sprawling before them; the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, the bridges, all glimmering in the late summer light. He drops his empty beer bottle on the sofa next to him and rakes his hands in his hair with a frustrated groan.

 _Out_.

He needs to get _out_.

Fresh air will do him good. He can’t stay inside, letting himself go increasingly maudlin as the night progresses. He gets up, Bowie falling from the sofa with an plaintive meow when he does.

"Sorry, Bowie," he turns to throw an apologetic look at his Kneazle, "I need to go."

Bowie chirrups knowingly, jumping back on the sofa, curling onto one of the throw pillows. He blinks slowly, three times, as though to encourage his human to go get his shit together.

Harry grabs his red hoodie and his coat, slides his ratty trainers on and walks out the door. He doesn’t even bother with the keys — he has his wand, and he doesn’t care about keeping up appearances for his Muggle neighbours’ sake.

The air is cold and prickly like needles when he steps out of the building, and it takes a few seconds for his lungs to adjust. He starts walking down the street in the general direction of the City, unsure whether he wants to see the London Eye with his own eyes, or whether it’s just the influence of the images seen on the telly. He walks slowly, tries to empty his head of all but the most futile thoughts. It’s nice, he thinks again. Nobody ever uses their time efficiently on December 31st, half an hour from midnight. Here he is, alone in the streets, checking out the windows of his favourite shops, catching up with his window shopping. There’s this new book that came out that he didn’t have time to read — maybe he’ll come back to buy it in a few days. And look, there’s a sale on funny tea mugs in that other shop. He shall get one of those for Arthur’s birthday as a joke gift.

Coming towards him, a laughing couple catches Harry’s eye.

They can’t be older than teenagers, the boy with his hair hidden under a woolen beanie, the girl with cascading black curls escaping from her red hat. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she says something that makes him smile sweetly. They notice Harry watching them and nod. “Happy New Year, sir,” the girl tells him brightly.

“Happy New Year,” Harry answers back, distracted by a sudden memory.

He remembers seeing Draco Malfoy one day, at the beginning of Sixth Year, in the cloistered garden of Hogwarts. At that point, he was still the entitled prat he’d always been, the burden of the task Voldemort had entrusted him with not having fully settled in. Draco had his arm around Pansy’s shoulders, and Pansy was laughing, obviously pleased and proud to have been _chosen_ — or so was Harry’s interpretation at the time. Harry remembers that he was sitting with his friends not far away. And he remembers the pang of something painful and angry he’d felt at the sight of Draco and Pansy together. He had met Draco’s gaze then, and Draco’s grey eyes had turned hard and had held Harry’s gaze defiantly, just for a second too long.

The memory of that moment of piercing eye contact still sends Harry’s heart racing nearly ten years later.

What would his life have been like if he had realised back then that he and Draco could have more in common than they thought? Would they have become friends? Was their almost obsessive animosity an early sign of attraction, like little kids pulling their crush’s pigtails in kindergarten? Had Harry been in love with him all along?

And suddenly he can’t stand it. He can’t stand walking aimlessly along the streets.

He has to tell Draco. He has to know.

He starts walking faster and soon breaks into a run. It’s not even a dignified jog down the street — he’s running like a desperate man, like his life depends on it, like he has to get there before the bells chime midnight.

He has to see Draco before this year ends and another begins.

He rushes through the streets, pushing through crowds of tipsy party-goers as he gets closer to the city center. Vaguely, he remembers that it would be faster to Apparate, but he’s not sure he could manage it with that level of adrenaline in his system.

And also, he knows it’s silly, but running feels more romantic.

Soho is buzzing with activity, a few reporters filming the end of year festivities, a few others doing quick vox pops and snapping pictures for tomorrow’s papers.

Harry is out of breath, but he’s almost there. He bursts through the door of the Leaky Cauldron, barely stopping to nod at the patrons who recognise him and wish him a happy New Year. In the back, he taps his wand to the brick that lets the archway to Diagon Alley appear, and then he’s sprinting down Diagon Alley again, careful not to slip on the rain-slicked cobbles.

It’s just a few minutes to midnight when he pushes the door to _Blue Orchid_ . He thought he would walk in and find Draco right away and then— and then _what?_ He has no plan. He just hopes he can channel the spirit of Godric Gryffindor and come up with a grand gesture that will sweep Draco off his feet.

He’s in the club’s lobby, empty at that time of the night save for the coat check girl reading the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_ and looking so utterly bored she doesn’t even notice Harry standing there. The beat of the party’s music is seeping out into the lobby, bone-shattering loud even though it’s muffled by the blue velvet-covered walls and — he imagines — multiple Silencing charms. He’s still panting from his run; he bends over, hands on his thighs, catching his breath and cursing his lack of physical activity.

He used to be an athletic Quidditch player at Hogwarts, for fuck’s sake.

Just then, the door to the party space opens, letting out a deafening wave of music, laughs and cheers — and one Draco Malfoy. Whose eyes immediately fall on Harry, still breathing hard at the bottom of the stairs.

Draco freezes, hand on the door handle, and Harry straightens up with the shock of seeing him, even though he’s the very reason he came here tonight.

He hasn’t seen Draco since the end of October, when he hexed Harry and left Blaise and Ginny’s wedding without looking back. It’s only been two months, but now that Harry has his eyes on him once again, he knows without a doubt that it’s just been _too fucking long._

Draco is in an obviously bespoke three-piece Muggle suit and a white shirt opened at the collar, his white-blond hair artfully ruffled, the sharp planes of his pointy face accentuated by the ethereal blue lighting.

He looks for all the world like a fallen angel, and Harry’s heart drums in his chest.

And this is how it’s always felt with Draco, isn’t it? The intensity Hermione talked about. The fact that he could never let go of him, even when they were kids and he would have dismissed any other school bully without a second thought. Draco Malfoy had sought him out again and again, and Harry had always responded with a fury that was suspiciously close to enthusiasm. That flash of feeling he’d always got whenever he locked eyes with Malfoy across the Great Hall at Hogwarts — something that happened surprisingly often given how far the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables stood from one another.

In the course of their lives they had nearly killed each other, nearly let the other one die, and they’d saved each other repeatedly instead. And Harry has no doubt Draco’s still saving him — by being his friend, by letting him be the person he is now, their relationship informed by the past but unburdened by it, a bridge between two worlds he equally wants to be part of.

By being sharp, and funny, and kind, and surprising despite their years of knowing each other. By being open and free around the people he loves and trusts, and only around them, impenetrable to the rest of the world. By never letting Harry get away with his shortcomings and loving him anyway.

Harry who can be so brave and reckless in so many aspects of his life, and yet so fucking scared that he won’t even admit his feelings to himself, however strange it might be to fall in love with someone he grew up thinking he hated.

Someone who is the exact opposite of what he thought he wanted, and all the more perfect for being just that.

He loves this man, and the knowledge of it hits him like a thunderbolt.

“Draco,” he says helplessly.

Draco’s eyes narrow, hard as flint, and his right hand twitches as if itching for his wand.

“Why are you here, Harry?”

The sound of his voice, real and alive despite the coldness of his tone, snaps Harry out of his trance. He scrambles up the stairs, two at a time, the faster he can to get closer to Draco.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I am,” Draco says, folding his arms over his chest. Behind him, the party goes on, another minute to midnight. There’s a glint of hurt in Draco’s eyes at the sound of happy laughter and upbeat music coming from the next room, but he chases it away with a lazy shrug. “Not that I have anyone to kiss at midnight, anyway.”

“You could kiss _me_ ,” Harry blurts, astounded by his own boldness as the words tumble from his mouth.

"Right." Draco lets out a humourless snort. “Seriously, Harry. What are you doing here?”

Harry looks at him.

There’s only one thing left to do, really.

He takes a deep breath, never looking away, and tells him what he should have told him months, maybe years ago.

“Draco. I— I love you,” he says. “I came here to tell you that I’m in love you.”

The din of the music does nothing to shatter the heavy silence that has fallen like a blanket over the two of them. Draco looks taken aback but recovers quickly, narrowed eyes piercing Harry, distrust still written all over his face.

“You think you can come here and tell me that—” He swallows, looking away. When he lifts his pale eyes to Harry again, they are stormy and murderous. “You think you can come here and tell me _that_. And that it’ll make it all go away?” he demands furiously, but his voice shakes with something else beside anger, and hope soars in Harry’s chest.

Now is the time to do what he does best, and be a reckless, daring, fearless, determined Gryffindor.

“I don’t know if it will make anything go away, but I want you to know this: I love you, Draco Malfoy. I love everything about you. I love that you’re the most snobbish person I know, and yet you’ll still eat takeaway samosas with your fingers, sitting on a park bench with me. I love that you’re teaching me about all the Muggle things you love, even though you know I’ll always be a bit hopeless when it comes to art and culture. I love that you love your friends and that you’re so proud and protective of all of them, Muggle and magic alike. I love that you always look like you just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, and you'll still dance all night in the mud just because you love the music. I love that you make me a better person just by setting the example. Just by actively choosing to be a better person. I love that you make me laugh, and that you make me feel lighter and happier than I’ve ever felt. I love how you felt in my arms, against my skin, against my lips, I love and I hate how heartbreaking it was to let you walk away that night.” He takes a breath. “I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start — as soon as possible.”

Harry’s done. Behind the doors, people start enthusiastically counting backwards from ten.

“Harry,” Draco says, oddly choked. He blinks a few times, the conflict apparent on his face, as if he’s fighting back both tears and a jubilant grin.

In the end, he gives in.

“You see, Harry?” he tells him, eyes wet. “You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you!”

Harry takes his hand then, pulls him closer to him, the warmth and softness of his skin soothing Harry’s rough edges like nothing else. He thinks there’s a tear tracking down his own cheek, but he doesn’t care, because Draco is looking at him with a wobbly smile and bright eyes.

“Because I _hate_ you, Harry,” he says, sliding his arms around Harry’s neck. “I really, really, _really_ _fucking_ _hate_ _you_.”

Harry laughs, his voice hoarse with relief, and he kisses Draco, warm and deep and perfect.

The sound of people cheering finally breaks through the haze of love and bliss that surrounds Harry. He pulls away just enough to look into Draco's eyes, at his lightly flushed cheeks, at his lips pink and slick from their kiss.

“Happy New Year, Draco,” he murmurs, pushing his pale hair away from his forehead.

“I’m sure it will be,” Draco says, and he mirrors Harry’s gesture, sliding his fingers in Harry’s hair, his lips meeting Harry’s one more time.

The first lines of _Auld Lang Syne_ reach them and Harry is reminded of last year’s New Year’s Eve, when they were in the exact same place but so far from having anything figured out.

Draco laughs against Harry’s lips, their foreheads pressed together, and he says: “What does that song even mean?”

Harry thinks about it for a second. “I think it’s a song about... old friends,” he tells him.

“Seems appropriate, then,” Draco lifts an eyebrow, and as always Harry doesn’t know if he’s teasing him or not.

He’s just safe in the knowledge that Draco will take him as he is anyway, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

“Yes, it _is_ appropriate,” he agrees.

Draco smiles at him, soft and open and beautiful.

And Harry leans up, and kisses his lips again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all you wonderful readers and everyone who's left kudos and comments so far!! You're all amazing, sweet people and you've made this crazy first Drarry ride worthwhile <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading... kudos and comments are lovely <3!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lettersbyelise)!


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